




library of congress 


00020321702 


■«-■•< <u > w iv • •• 





















Class P 7 3> 

Book , P^ 3 osH 

Copyright M ? 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 






































































SHE WAS SOON AT THE ALTAR 


HER REALM 


BY 

ELLA PERRY PRICE 

Author of “ The Cry Heard ” 


CINCINNATI: JENNINGS AND PYE 

NEW YORK: EATON AND MAINS 







ItWfc Or 

I OOf-ujiirtss, 

| T'wv Oom.*s Hf 

\ sw < b mm , 

Co-/*, /?, /if 03 
'le*33T ■ 

/ v ry ^ 


Copyright , 1903, by 
Jennings and Pye 


To TOottertiond 



PREFACE 


sT 

Tha T this book should be written by a missionary in a 
foreign land may seem incongruous ; but the author began, 
and nearly completed, the story while still resident in 
America. Her aim has been to portray an exalted type 
of womanhood , chiefly renowned for virtuous sons and 
daughters, in contrast with the mistaken ideals too often 
cherished; to recognize those other women who, though not 
thus privileged, have yet made their lives sublime by self- 
forgetful ministries ; and to help save young people from 
the wiles of organized villainy by training them for the 
highest in character and service. Subsequent observations 
have only strengthened convictions previously formed, and 
now presented in the following narrative. 

ELLA PERRY PRICE. 


Rangoon, Burma, 1902. 


























CONTENTS 


>r 


Chapter Page 

I. Siren Voices, ------- 15 

II. Two Crownings, ------ 30 

III. “Hard to Find,” ------ 42 

IV. Tender Hopes, ------ 57 

V. “The Hand that Rocks the Cradle,” 68 

VI. Her Subjects, ------ 78 

VII. Keeping Faith with the Boy, 93 

VIII. “Trained for the Highest,” - 108 

IX. A Deserted Throne, - - - - - - 116 

/ 

X. The Fire Upon the Altar, - 125 

XI. Behind the Scenes, - - - - - 134 

XII. On the Verge, 145 

XIII. Too Late, -------- 158 

XIV. Her Widening Influence, - 168 

XV. According to the Sowing, ----- 181 

XVI. The Sting of the Adder, ----- 193 

XVII. Home-Coming, - - 200 

XVIII. Till Her Work Was Done, - 214 

9 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


>r 


She Was Soon at the Altar, - 

Frontispiece 



Page 


He Was Lustily Tooting, - 

29 

He Stretched His Feet Toward the Grate, 

58 

>/ 

The Last Hour Before Bedtime, - 

91 


Hand in Hand, Like Children After Flowers, 

177 

</ 


4 







HER REALM 

































































































































' 







. 










CHAPTER I 


SIREN VOICES 

Maple Grove is the scene of varied rural activ- 
ity. The early sun of a bright May morning falls 
aslant the upland meadows and pastures, while 
Lucretia Livingstone in her cool parlor sits sewing 
a bit of lace in the neck of an exquisite blue and 
white dimity. She has soft brown hair and eyes, 
and a pleasant face of refined intelligence; and she 
puts her needle in and out with the skill of one 
with much practice and exceptional taste. Near 
by stands Constance, her youngest child, a maiden 
of three years, with eager anticipation; for she is 
the owner of the dress. She can scarcely wait for 
the last stitch. At length the fluffy robe is finished, 
and adorns the dainty wearer. Then, her golden 
ringlets tossing, she flits away through the open 
door, out upon the green grass under the maples. 
So airily does she glide, with the wavering sunlight 
touching her hair and the joy of childhood sandal- 
ing her feet, that a whiff of wind seemingly might 
lift her up with the birds in the branches. Mrs. 
Livingstone sits in the window, watching the child. 

15 


16 


Her Realm 


Running in and out among the trees, with out- 
stretched arms, she looks like a bird of paradise. 
It is a way Constance has, upon donning a new 
dress, at once to imagine herself a winged crea- 
ture, and dart away, singing merrily as she goes. 
This morning the joyous songsters make the air 
vocal. And she trips lightly over the green lawn 
to the words : 

“ Let me fly, says little birdie, 

Mother, let me fly away.” 

“Bless the child !” said Mrs. Livingstone, smil- 
ing. She always enjoyed the little girl’s fancy, and 
let her take wing for a while. The flight of the 
bird over, she came panting back, with cheeks 
aglow, and eyes larger and bluer than ever. 

“I wish I could really fly,” she said, “and the 
birds were calling me. They kept saying, ‘Con- 
stance, Constance !’ ” 

“ ‘ Birdie, rest a little longer, 
h Till the little wings are stronger,’ ” 

said mother, kissing her baby, “then perhaps you 
will fly away.” And carefully hanging the pretty 
gown in the wardrobe, she dressed Constance as 
usual, and let her go with her brothers and sisters 
to gather flowers in the woods. 

Mrs. Livingstone, however, tarried upon the 
front porch; for if there is inspiration in surround- 
ings, it certainly could be found at Maple Grove. 


Siren Voices 


17 


A glimmering brook rolled in the morning light, 
some distance away under the eastern hill. The 
highway passed along the west of the valley, just 
at the foot of the hill which rose toward the sun- 
set; while somewhat removed from the road, on a 
level spot up the side of the slope, stood the house 
and barns of Maple Grove. At the east of the house 
and overlooking the valley, towered spreading 
maples, while from the rear of the buildings the hill 
continued to reach upward to the old orchard and 
the grove, and still upward to the level meadows 
near the top, and to the divide. Up there was that 
spring which seemed such a wonder in the days 
of chilhood, because it sends its waters to the ocean 
through both the St. Lawrence River and the Ches- 
apeake Bay, according as the sparkling nectar flows 
from one side or the other of its small basin. 

Thus early in May, and so far to the north, 
nature was not yet showing her best. Neverthe- 
less, she had beauty. The grass wore a deep green ; 
the air smelled of wild flowers planted by the chil- 
dren under the trees ; while the maples, gayly robed 
in blossoms, and in contrast with the dark hemlocks, 
gave a glow of warmth to the opposite hillside, 
not unlike that of autumn. The plowed earth, 
moist in the recent spring rains, made a rich border 
to a few early grainfields. The sun, through an 
occasional parting of the clouds, sent a ray of light 
chasing across the valley, and up the wood-crowned 
2 


18 


Her Realm 


hills beyond. An evergreen nodded, and rubbed 
its branches against the corner of the house. A 
robin, flitting in the ash-tree at the north, added 
his note to the song of morning; while a little re- 
moved, the hum of machinery in the milkhouse told 
of the separating of the cream or the turning out 
of the beautiful golden butter. 

At the time of marriage, Mr. and Mrs. Living- 
stone had chosen to make their home in the country. 
They saw that intellectual training and real refine- 
ment had place on the farm as well as in the city. 
The raising of crops and the care of cattle were 
becoming a science. And, besides, the struggle for 
existence and the sharp competitions were not so 
deeply felt; conditions were not so cramped. More 
than this, there were the freedom of the fields in 
summer, and the long evenings by the fire in win- 
ter, that were sure to stamp character as little else 
would. 

Maple Grove had been selected by a former 
generation as an ideal spot for a home; and Mr. 
Livingstone did not believe that he could improve 
upon the choice of his ancestors. The place was 
three miles from the neighboring village, whose 
church-spires were plainly visible from the woods 
above the barn. And on still Sabbath mornings, 
with the wind blowing up the valley, the soft sound 
of bells would roll harmoniously along the hillside. 
Bordering the highway, from this town on the south 


Siren Voices 


19 


to the one several miles north, were frequent home- 
steads among clustering trees, giving to the whole 
length of the valley the appearance of a continu- 
ation of the village. And though farther back upon 
the slopes, one might lose himself in the depth of 
the forest, yet he knew that, within a few steps, he 
could look out upon many neighboring homes and, 
in an hour’s ride, he could go into the bustling com- 
mercial center beyond the village. During these 
years, Maple Grove had been suited to the varying 
moods of its occupants, whether they sought the 
solitude of the woods or the enterprise and activity 
of the town. 

It may be added that, to people of culture like 
Mr. and Mrs. Livingstone, all that region of coun- 
try possessed a charm besides the beauty of the 
hills and the green of the meadows. For in an early 
day, men had gone up and down the rivers, and 
had given to the hamlets classic Grecian and Roman 
names. So that the untutored boys and girls, in 
small towns far from the railroad, in their first les- 
sons in local geography, were unconsciously per- 
petuating the fame of the heroes of antiquity — ora- 
tors, philosophers, and poets — together with his- 
toric cities. Besides these, many of Indian origin 
added their musical sound to the flow of the rivers 
and the lapping water of the lakes ; and, occasionally, 
one of Dutch descent gave variety to the more sober 
names of ancient date — a barbarous mixture, no 


20 


Her Realm 


doubt, and one that has called forth denunciations 
from some wise pens. Think of it! The poets, 
Homer, Virgil, and Ovid; the lawgiver, Solon; 
the orator, Cicero, with Cato, Brutus, Aurelius, and 
Pompey; the mythical Romulus, Hector, and Ulys- 
ses, with the “wary Fabius” and the Carthaginian 
Hannibal, — all these halo-crowned heroes of the 
golden past mingling with the half-tutored Oneidas, 
the Mohawks, the Onondagas, the Senecas, and the 
Cayugas! An incongruous company, to be sure! 
But hold! who dares to criticise? Was he born 
within sight of those hills and valleys, and within 
sound of those rivers and lakes? From academy 
windows did he look out upon the trees of a vil- 
lage whose very name sung the praises of earth’s 
greatest ancient singer? If not, let him hold his 
peace; for he knows not whereof he speaks. 

At any rate, to Mrs. Livingstone, there was a 
decidedly agreeable flavor in this mixing of ancient 
and modern worthies. What if the new Marathon 
did lie upon the banks of the Tioughnioga? The 
situation had in it not only the memory of academy 
halls and college friendships, but the scent of wild 
flowers in the forest, and the sound of rippling 
waters down the dell. In fancy, one could hear the 
retreating army of Darius upon the ^gean-washed 
plains of Greece, or the plashing of the oars of a 
darting canoe upon the Great Lakes. It was the 
habit of Lucretia Livingstone occasionally to pause 


Siren Voices 


21 


and dwell upon the life that formerly beat about 
those inland waters, and that greater life that surged 
upon the blue Mediterranean. It was like poetry 
to her soul. Living among the hills, she had been 
shut out from many of the noble activities of woman 
in the city. With ear attuned to catch the cry of 
earth’s poor, and hand willing to lift burdens from 
weary shoulders, yet she was surrounded by such 
fruitful fields, and so far removed from haunts of 
misery that it would have been easy to believe the 
whole world well fed and clothed and taught. 

Nevertheless, she seemed to hear at times the 
echo of human woe, and longed to go forth from her 
home of plenty and comfort to help still the storm. 
Not always could she complacently pillow her head 
upon the green slopes when the pitiful moaning 
of the wind swept about her. Once, years before, 
when the sigh was too full of pathos, she took by 
the hand her only child, Lawrence, and silently 
walked through the lane, across the pasture, up to 
the woods. Here, beneath the stately maples in the 
grove, she left him to gather blue, white, and yellow 
violets, while she followed a green path into the 
heart of the forest, and there, by a rude stone altar, 
with a roof of tremulous maple and beech leaves, 
she quieted for the time the cry to go forth into 
the world’s battles. When she came back to her boy 
that afternoon, she bore a face of sweetest calm. 
The half hour at the altar in the woods had done it. 


22 


Her Realm 


In those days, no other one but her husband knew 
of the sanctity of that pile of stones. But many a 
cobble or a slab, were it given a voice, could have 
told of the occasional coming of a woman into the 
depths of the wood, sometimes when the sunlight 
fell through the wavering leaves, sometimes when 
clouds made the shadows deep; of her tarrying at 
the foot of the altar, and of her going away with 
a light in her face that would almost make the path 
shine. But the voice that called her was hard to 
still. For she was a woman with a heart. And the 
voice had so much of suffering in it, that she some- 
times felt she must go, and with her own hands 
carry comfort. Then it was she walked to the woods, 
where she was able to command herself for the 
work before her. 

The morning she finished the dress for Constance 
she had just returned from giving some directions 
in the kitchen, when she heard the roll of wheels 
along the driveway. Stepping out upon the side 
porch, she greeted Mrs. Thornton, her former school 
friend and present social leader in the village, seated 
in her carriage behind a team of dashing blacks. 
Assisting Mrs. Thornton to alight, she directed the 
coachman to the barn. Mrs. Livingstone took her 
guest into the parlor. As on previous occasions, 
this woman was impressed with the marked evi- 
dences of culture and refinement in that otherwise 
unpretentious home. She hastily scanned the artis- 


Siren Voices 


23 


tic grouping of pictures upon the walls, and, in the 
living room, as she came through, a large case of 
well-selected books. Once in easy-chairs, these 
two women engaged in animated conversation. For, 
though in outward conditions somewhat wide apart, 
they were mutually entertaining, and, in a way, ad- 
mirers of each other. The summer seldom passed 
without exchange of visits. 

“What a beautiful place this is!” said Mrs. 
Thornton, glancing through the open door, out 
upon the lawn quivering with tracery cast by the 
maple leaves. “I think I might be content to stay 
here in the summer. But the winter — O-o-o-o!” 
She shuddered at the very thought of it. 

Mrs. Livingstone smiled, but said nothing. There 
rose before her vision, however, a picture that 
brought the tears to her eyes. In the family sitting- 
room she saw seven happy children before the glow- 
ing grate, she among them by the lamplight, read- 
ing Andersen’s “Fairy Tales” or “Swiss Family 
Robinson,” and closing with something from the 
Book of books. And the comfort within was made 
surer by the hollow roaring of the wind upon the 
hilltops, and the sifting of the snow through the bare 
branches of the maples. But she let the vision 
pass and turned to her friend. 

“Where are Margaret and Horace ?” 

“There was not time for the nurse to dress 
them.” 


24 


Her Realm 


“The ride would have done them good.” 

“Yes, but the club gives a banquet to-night at 
Mrs. Spencer’s, and I am on the committee, and 
ought not to have driven up this morning. Bring- 
ing the children was out of the question. Besides, 
I have to respond to a toast on ‘Woman’s Per- 
plexities.’ ” 

Mrs. Livingstone wanted to sigh, but she had 
better manners. She only said: “I wish you had 
brought the children as they were.” 

Just then two pairs of bright eyes peered above 
the window-sill, and two arms reached through with 
bunches of myrtle and squirrel corn, and two voices 
said: 

“We ‘give you the flowers through the window, 
for the door ’s such a long way round.’ ” 

Mrs. Livingstone kissed the upturned faces, and 
took the bouquets, then away flew Mary and Con- 
stance as fast as feet of five and three summers 
could carry them. Mrs. Thornton could not help 
thinking somewhat regretfully of a little boy and 
girl who had begged for a ride with mamma that 
delicious spring morning. But she soon dismissed 
the thought, for she had other business. 

“Mrs. Livingstone, I drove out to see if I could 
not persuade you to join our club. The ladies are 
very anxious to have you.” There was no reply, 
and Mrs. Thornton went on: “You have such gifts, 
you could help us greatly. Besides, you would en- 


Siren Voices 


25 


joy the change. You owe it to yourself and to 
society, and to your children as well. I would not, 
for the world, be without the refining influence of 
club life upon my home. ,, 

“Indeed ?” said Mrs. Livingstone. 

“Certainly I would not. It brings to woman a 
love not confined to home and Church. It is exert- 
ing an incalculable influence, and has set in motion 
forces that are to revolutionize the world.” 

“I think that is true,” said Mrs. Livingstone, 
thoughtfully. 

“It has put me into such a genial atmosphere,” 
continued her guest, “and has given me such appre- 
ciation that it has roused all the best there is in me. 
I enjoy a larger life than ever I did before. Noth- 
ing else could have given me such aspirations.” 

Mrs. Livingstone recalled the sorority friend- 
ships of her college days, and understood the mean- 
ing of Mrs. Thornton’s words. But she thought 
of the green path through the woods to the altar, 
and of her children gathering flowers in the grove; 
and she wondered if anything else could have given 
her such aspirations. Then she thought of the man 
who, during these years, had so loyally walked beside 
her; and she wondered who else could have given 
her such appreciation. 

“I admit much that you say,” at length answered 
Mrs. Livingstone. “There are many discouraged, 
lonely women, who find great inspiration and strength 


26 


Her Realm 


in the life of which you speak. To such the club must 
come as a beam of light. But to some I think it comes 
as a siren voice. It is sweet to hear, this calling 
us to uplifting associations and to possibilities of 
cheering dreary women on their way. It is a voice 
that any woman of spirit would gladly heed. But 
some of us have not that privilege.” 

“Certainly, you are not of that class,” replied 
Mrs. Thornton. “You might appropriately im- 
prove this opportunity.” 

“Not without disregarding something far more 
important.” 

“I can not understand you,” said her guest. 
“What could be of so much greater worth than the 
developing of one's own gifts, and enriching life for 
other women?” 

“That work is noble,” said Mrs. Livingstone. 
“But just now, I am not at liberty to undertake it. 
I must leave it to those who feel themselves called 
to such endeavor.” 

Further she did not eare to particularize to a 
woman who lightly considered the responsibility to 
childhood, and soon turned the conversation to sub- 
jects of mutual understanding and interest. At 
length, Mrs. Thornton’s time being limited, she 
ordered her carriage and bade Mrs. Livingstone 
good-morning. 

As she rode along the highway, she turned to 


Siren Voices 


27 


look up again at the white house behind the maples. 
She thought of the woman there, and how, in school- 
days, she was admired for her elocution and her 
rhetoric, and how one of the professors had urged 
her to become a public speaker ; for she had a good 
voice and a forceful way of putting her ideas. She 
would have had a brilliant career if she had so 
chosen. 

Then certain uncomfortable suggestions con- 
cerning her own children came to her mind, and 
prompted her to urge the driver to greater speed. 

For the next twenty minutes, two black beauties 
carried this cultured and progressive woman past 
the farmhouses, over the bridges, and under the 
trees, with unusual swiftness. Some looked from 
their windows at the passing equipage with great 
admiration and a certain degree of envy for the 
woman thus favored by fortune. 

Shortly she drove in at the side entrance of one 
of the most imposing dwellings in the village. It 
was a square, old-fashioned, but stately house, whose 
very proportions were classic. Even the trees in 
the yard had an aristocratic pose. It was, however, 
a charming place. And not far away to the east 
murmured the waters of the beautiful Tioughnioga. 
Mrs. Thornton hastily alighted. Margaret stood 
rather disconsolately in the doorway. 

“Where is Horace ?” said her mother, hurriedly. 


28 


Her Realm 


“I don’t know,” said the child. “He just won’t 
stay here when you are away. I tried to amuse 
him, but he would go.” 

Then the nurse and the servant were questioned 
in turn, but neither could tell where the little vagrant 
might be. He was only five, but he had developed 
some very unenviable traits. He had a sweet, child- 
ish face that one could not help loving. And he had 
snapping black eyes, but not such as could be trusted. 
Other mothers had learned to know that when they 
saw Horace coming, they must carefully guard their 
own children. Mrs. Thornton declared she could 
not keep him at home. He would run off to play 
across the street. But the neighbors noticed that 
when there was diphtheria near by, she kept him at 
home for three months. 

She had scarcely driven away that morning when 
Horace was missing, and had not been seen since. 
A search was ordered at once. The coachman was to 
look in the barn, the nurse was to hurry to the gro- 
cery, Margaret was to go over to Mrs. Denham’s, 
while Mrs. Thornton herself stood by the front gate 
calling : 

“Horace, Horace !” 

It was a call with which all the neighbors were 
familiar, and one that made their hearts sick for the 
prophecy in it. 

“Horace !” 

Soon the culprit emerged from the rear of Mrs. 













































HE WAS LUSTILY TOOTING 




Siren Voices 


29 


Denham’s, his face streaked with dust, feathers in 
his cap, and a horn in his mouth, upon which he 
was lustily tooting. Mrs. Thornton was annoyed. 
She gave him a little shaking as he came through 
the gate, not enough to hurt him or do him any 
good, but simply to give vent to her own vexation, 
and hurried him off to the nurse to be dressed for 
lunch. She had not time for any more emphatic 
reprimand; for there was that reception, and she 
must complete her response to the toast, “Woman’s 
Perplexities.” They seemed great just then. 


CHAPTER II 


TWO CROWNINGS 

Having given strict orders not to be interrupted, 
Mrs. Thornton went to her room, opened the desk, 
and took out her writing, which she had nearly fin- 
ished, and had judged very good. But she was 
somewhat disturbed by the recent episode with 
Horace, and looked upon her work with less satis- 
faction. She managed, however, to put down any 
disquieting thoughts, and set herself energetically 
to complete her task; for the hours were passing, 
and she must be ready. In the middle of the after- 
noon, eluding the children, she slipped out at the 
side door, to learn the progress of the committee 
at Mrs. Spencer’s. She made some needed sugges- 
tions with regard to decorations and the serving 
of refreshments, and, when sure that everything 
would be in proper form, hastily returned to dress 
for the evening. She actually begrudged the time 
necessary to eat dinner with her family. As for 
strolling with Margaret and Horace through the 
flower-garden afterward, that was not to be thought 
30 


Two Crownings 


31 


of. When Horace, in a fit of desperation, broke 
away from the nurse, and, against her earnest en- 
treaties, fled precipitately over the grass plot, into 
the kitchen, and up the stairs to his mother’s room, 
with a bouquet of velvety pansies, she hastily put 
him out, with the rather sharp declaration: “I can 
not be bothered now. I must leave in a few min- 
utes.” She even omitted to kiss the little fellow 
for his love token. With a somewhat sullen air he 
turned and walked away, muttering sentiments quite 
natural under the circumstances, and yet not at all 
respectful in one of his years. Mrs. Thornton could 
not help hearing his words, but she had not time to 
notice them. Then, too, she was conscious of having 
herself provoked the boy’s indignation; and she let 
the occasion pass. 

Nothing went wrong, however, with the arrange- 
ments for the reception. All the time necessary for 
their completion was given. And when, at the last 
minute, one of the ladies came in for further details 
concerning the salads, Mrs. Thornton unhesitatingly 
invited her up-stairs, and graciously gave her all 
the information desired. In reply to an apology 
for coming at so late an hour, she hastened to say : 
“O pray do not mention it. I have an abundance 
of time. Then we could not have anything go amiss 
to-night. I am glad you stopped.” 

Fortunately Horace did not hear this conversa- 
tion. If he had, and had been old enough to appre- 


32 


Her Realm 


ciate its inconsistency, he probably would have been 
more rebellious than ever. 

Thanks to a few women like Mrs. Thornton, 
Mrs. Spencer’s home that evening was a vision of 
loveliness. Not a detail was lacking. The lights, 
the club colors of white and purple, the orchestra 
behind a screen of palms in the upper hall, the pro- 
fusion of potted plants — all were arranged with such 
harmonious effect as to satisfy the most exacting. 

At the appointed hour the rooms began to fill 
with intelligent and well-dressed ladies, a few of 
whom were guests from a city club, and all were 
liberal in expressions of praise. Mrs. Thornton 
herself had never looked handsomer. When she 
swept into the reception-hall, to the soothing music 
of her own rustling silks, and within the halo of 
her brilliant diamonds, she was an object of favor- 
able comment by all present. Strangers made haste 
to inquire, “Who is that elegant lady?” and, upon 
being introduced, hovered as near as propriety ad- 
mitted; for she was decidedly the most popular 
woman there and a captivating conversationalist. 
Then something in the flash of her black eyes held 
people. She always gathered a group of listeners. 
The club was proud of her, for her success meant 
theirs. And there were whisperings among them 
that she might some day preside at the State Feder- 
ation. Echoes of this prediction reached Mrs. 
Thornton’s ears, and made her more determined 


Two Crownings 


33 


than ever to achieve victory. Her response to the 
toast was a great triumph, and won the most hearty 
applause. She had her crowning that night; and 
she wore her laurels with dignity and extreme self- 
complacency. Amid smiles and congratulations the 
evening wore on till a late hour. Then closed a year 
declared by all to have been one of much intellectual 
advancement and social privilege. 

As Mrs. Thornton stepped upon the front porch 
of her own home she turned to let the night air 
cool her flushed face. So constantly had she been 
engaged of late with society matters that she scarcely 
gave herself time to dwell upon the charms of her 
quiet village that slept peacefully in the pale moon- 
light. Not a sound broke the stillness, save the faint 
ripple of the water in the river under the hill. For 
some minutes she paused, listening to its sweet and 
gentle music, and needing something to calm her 
excitement. Yet she could not help thinking of what 
had come to her that night, and feeling the joy of 
a woman who has won public favor. She had 
gained what she sought, and was pleased. Again 
within the walls of her home, however, except for 
the dim light in the drawing-room, everything was 
oppressively solemn. No one was there to greet 
her. The children and their nurse long before were 
in dreamland. Her husband had come an hour 
previous from the office, where he had been poring 
over a trying case, and, not finding his wife, had 
3 


34 


Her Realm 


gone to his room. She sank into the depths of a 
chair, too tired to remove her gloves, and would 
have fallen asleep but for weariness. 

Then, for the first time since her return from 
Mrs. Livingstone’s, she gave serious thought to 
Horace and Margaret. They had begged to go with 
her that morning into the country, but she could 
not wait for them. Later in the day they had wanted 
a story, but she had so many plans for the reception 
that she could scarcely give them a minute during 
all its long hours. She also recalled, with painful 
sensations, her unwarranted dismissal of Horace and 
his pansies, and, for a moment, contrasted the scene 
with that of Mrs. Livingstone’s acceptance of wild 
flowers from Mary and Constance. At night, too, 
her children had cried when she went away; but 
she had an engagement ; and until she turned out at 
the gate she could hear their sobs. All this was 
not a very pleasant reflection, to say the least. And 
it removed some of the glamour of the evening. 
Yet, after all, was she not making an honest effort 
to supply the needs of her children? Why should 
she spend her time with them when the nurse could 
do as well? It gave her opportunity for larger de- 
velopment. And it seemed such small work for a 
woman of her capacity and influence to be absorbed 
in the care of two children. In these days of woman’s 
expanding powers it was altogether out of the ques- 
tion. How otherwise could she have become au- 


Two Crownings 


35 


thority upon Shakespeare? How could she have 
fathomed the depths of Browning, or have studied 
the old masters? Then there was that comprehen- 
sive paper read at the State Federation last Novem- 
ber in New York City, on “Methods of Opening a 
Child’s Eyes to the Beauties of Nature.” She could 
not have written it without days of reading and 
investigation. There was no time for mending 
broken toys, bathing bruised heads, and reading fairy 
stories, much less for excursions to the country in 
search of golden-rod and immortelle. Some one 
else was paid for entertaining her children. Be- 
sides, her conscience would not let her use so much 
time for her own improvement, without taking some 
for Church and charitable purposes. So that two 
afternoons and one evening of the week were regu- 
larly thus employed. She was the president of the 
Mothers’ Meeting, and absolutely indispensable to 
its success. 

Another reason why she felt justified in being 
so much from home was the fact that her hus- 
band did not spend his evenings there. But did 
she reflect that she was the first to mar the charm 
of domestic life by a multiplicity of outside engage- 
ments? During the early years of their married 
life he made it a point to stay with his wife and 
babies, unless sharing with her a social gathering. 
But when he habitually saw her dressing to go, he 
found little delight at his own fireside. Conse- 


36 


Her Realm 


quently, he soon had work at the office demanding 
his attention. But Mrs. Thornton had failed to 
see how she was in any way responsible for a decline 
in his appreciation of home. So she quieted any 
chiding of her own conscience, by casting the blame 
on her husband. Thus musing, she fell asleep, and 
did not waken till the chimes in the hall struck 
two. Then she arose and slowly dragged herself 
up-stairs. Margaret and Horace were sweetly sleep- 
ing in snow-white beds. She stooped and kissed each 
pretty mouth. But the nurse had carefully washed 
all traces of sorrow from their cheeks. At length, 
Mrs. Thornton herself slept. 

It is a week later. Some mystery is in the air this 
morning at Maple Grove. A council is called in 
the grape arbor south of the woodhouse. Lawrence 
is in the chair. Mary stands guard against the 
approach of any outsider, for the session is a secret 
one. The necessary business is soon transacted, 
however, and the members emerge from their hiding- 
place. Presently, with baskets on their arms, they 
scurry away to the woods, and, for an hour, silence 
reigns about the house. Mrs. Livingstone, sur- 
prised by the sudden stillness, comes out for an 
explanation. Across the entrance to the leafless arbor 
hangs a curtain, upon which, in large letters, is the 
word “Closed.” She understands that she is not 
to be admitted. Then, looking beyond the barns, 


Two Crownings 


37 


she espies seven children wending their way single 
file up the hill toward the grove, their faithful dog, 
Victor, leading the way. She smiles, and turns to 
enter the house, when she sees in a box, nailed by 
the door for the reception of love-letters between 
herself and children, a note addressed in Charlotte’s 
hand : It read as follows : 

“Coronation of Queen Dewdrop at four o’clock. 
Be sure to come. Please answer. 

“Seven Loyae Subjects.” 

Mrs. Livingstone went back to her work. But 
first she opened her desk and answered the note, 
gladly accepting the invitation. This answering of 
missives took no little time, but she never neglected 
them. After a while she heard voices in the dis- 
tance, and, presently, sounds of activity in the arbor ; 
but she kept away. Yet she could not help catching 
sight of chairs, flags, and vases hurried out onto 
the side porch, and, now and then, hearing subdued 
laughter or faint ejaculations. She appeared utterly 
non-observant, however. After an unusually bold 
excursion into the sitting-room, when they came back 
with her easy-chair, a council was again summoned 
for serious consideration. Mother had a caller in 
the parlor, and Norman and Leroy both declared 
they heard her say she would be at Aunt Martha’s 
at four o’clock. 


38 


Her Realm 


“She could n’t have meant to-day,” said Lilian. 

“I know she said something about another en- 
gagement,” chimed in Mary. 

“Good for you, my Highland lassie,” said Law- 
rence. 

Then a bright idea popped into Constance’s head, 
and she disappeared outside the curtain, returning 
with a letter from the post-box. In their excite- 
ment they had forgotten to look for an answer to 
the note. Norman, the secretary of the council, read 
as follows: 

“My Dear Devoted Subjects, — I gladly accept 
your invitation to the coronation of Queen Dewdrop 
at four o’clock this afternoon. Nothing ordinary 
will prevent my coming. 

“Your Faitheue Queen.” 

“That settles it,” continued Norman. “Unless 
somebody ’s sick or dying, she ’ll be here. And if 
she can’t come, she ’ll write.” 

So they watched the departure of the guest, and 
kept an eye on the box. But no contradictory mes- 
sage came. And they heartily resumed preparations. 
By three o’clock everything was to their liking, but 
still carefully concealed. Then there were hurrying 
footsteps up the stairs, and the closing of doors, 
as the children repaired to their various rooms. 
After three-quarters of an hour they came tiptoeing 


Two Crownings 


39 


down, freshly arrayed, to complete exterior decora- 
tions. Matting was laid along the porch from the 
dining-room door to the arbor entrance. Seven- 
year-old Leroy and his younger sister Mary took 
from within the arbor a basket of maple blossoms 
and leaves, and strewed them on the matting, as a 
passage for the queen. Charlotte looped the cur- 
tains. All was ready. At exactly four, a small silver 
bell tinkled, and Mrs. Livingstone appeared, Con- 
stance ahead carrying a basket of blue violets, from 
which she dropped blossoms along the path. On 
either side of the entrance to the arbor, stood Nor- 
man and Leroy, who, with soldierly dignity, lifted 
their caps as the queen passed. Just within, Law- 
rence and Charlotte stepped aside to let the honored 
personage by. At the farther end of the arbor, 
which was also curtained from the rays of the sun, 
stood Lilian and Mary at either side of their moth- 
er’s easy-chair, which was literally transformed 
by old silk draperies and flower festoons of blue 
and white violets. Upon this throne the queen 
was seated. Then Lilian placed a crown of myrtle 
leaves upon her head, and Mary a wand trimmed 
with myrtle blossoms in her hand. On a small table 
at the left stood a vase of white trillium, one of 
pepper-root, and another of red bainberry. Hemlock 
branches were intended to close the open sides of 
the arbor, while twigs of maple and silver birch, 
with a coloring of yellow violets, formed an un- 


40 


Her Realm 


certain roof over their heads. On a stand at her 
right were plates of water bordered with a few ten- 
der ferns, and sailing tiny geranium-leaf boats, cov- 
ered with sparkling drops of water; for Constance 
would have dewdrops somewhere. 

The queen lifted her wand, and all her subjects 
stood before her. She lowered it, and all sat upon 
the rug at her feet. Then she told a story, such as 
no one else could tell. She peopled a beautiful 
landscape with wonderful inhabitants. She strolled 
through winding lanes, over green fields, and into 
deep forests. She gathered bright flowers, and lis- 
tened to sweet songsters, and rested in shadowy 
coolness upon the banks of a brimming river. She 
made paths among the stars, and wandered with her 
children there. Finally she led them up to a great 
white throne, where they were all crowned. Then, 
after a pause and a movement of the wand, the 
silver bell sounded, and the ceremony was over. 

“O,” said Constance, whose eyes had fairly 
blazed with eager interest, “why couldn’t we stay 
by that throne?” They could not see, in those days, 
how they were being continually held there. 

It is half-past eight. Deep shadows dim the hills. 
Pale stars peep out from the blue. The crickets 
and frogs sing their song to the night. The chil- 
dren’s voices are hushed. Mrs. Livingstone has 
just eone the rounds of each snowy bed to whisper 


Two Crownings 


41 


love to the precious occupants, and to hear the 
sweetest words, “I love you, mother.” Now she 
sits with her husband in the family room, talking 
over some matters of interest about the farm. Her 
myrtle crown hangs on a twig in the arbor. But 
she is crowned; yes, she is crowned! 


CHAPTER III 

‘‘HARD TO FIND” 

“Hard to find, — a clean, upright, industrious 
young man.” Mrs. Livingstone read these words 
from the pen of a successful merchant, as she sat 
resting, one warm July morning, by her parlor win- 
dow. She was startled. Of course, from her own 
observation and reading, she knew of the alarming 
errancy among young men. She knew of the fright- 
ful havoc of vicious habits, even among boys. She 
knew of drunkenness, poverty, and insanity; of the 
frequent bank defalcations, the plunder of private 
homes, the holding up of railway trains, and the 
consequent crowds within prison walls; and often 
their sad eyes peering from behind the bars had 
haunted her dreams at night. Yet never before 
had the situation been put to her with the tragic 
force of those few words. What could the Chris- 
tian mothers of this land be doing ? And she looked 
with loving solicitude out upon a group of happy 
boys and girls in the sand-pile under the shade of 
the maples. Charlotte’s Ruth Marion Dorothy Grace 
Livingstone sat in a doll-carriage near by, the most 
42 


“Hard to Find” 


43 


correctly-behaved child of the company. The sand 
had been molded into landscapes, with rivers, lakes, 
mountains, valleys, railroads, and cities. From her 
parlor window she watched the golden and raven 
locks flit by, and saw the bright eyes sparkle, and 
listened to the peals of childish laughter from rosy 
lips, or heard the cries of dismay over some moun- 
tain avalanche or undermined railway. And she 
smiled or looked serious according to the promptings 
of her own thoughts. That morning, sheltered by 
the outstretched arms of the maples and watched 
over by tireless love, her children were comparatively 
safe. But the day would come, and that not many 
years hence, when her boys would be of those among 
whom it is “hard to find a clean, upright, indus- 
trious young man.” Somehow, just then, the 
thought was not altogether quieting. What a weight 
of responsibility it threw upon her as a mother! 
There must be no temporizing. Now was her op- 
portunity. Once gone, it would never return. To 
fulfill her obligations, however, she was willing to 
make all the personal sacrifices necessary. Indeed, 
it became an unspeakable privilege, in comparison 
with which, social position, and even intellectual 
development, had little attraction. If fidelity to her 
trust would avert the disastrous consequences so 
often seen in young men and women, gladly would 
she pay the cost. 

Reflecting thus, she again took up her reading. 


44 


Her Realm 


But often she would lift her eyes from the page 
for a glance at the brood in the sand, as though she 
feared the swooping upon them of some bird of 
prey; for she knew that the vultures threatened her 
birdlings as well as those of other mothers, and 
that only the most careful guarding of the nest 
would prevent the ruin of its occupants. 

Presently her meditations were interrupted by a 
footfall on the front porch. And she arose to greet 
two young ladies from the city, Miss Jennings and 
Mrs. Harris, who had come out for a day’s rest, 
and would return at night. After seating her guests 
and exchanging courtesies, with more particular 
inquiries concerning mutual friends and acquaint- 
ances, the conversation drifted to the children 
outside. 

“What a flock of them!” said Miss Jennings. 
“And think of having to care for this home! O, 
I shall never marry! I wouldn’t keep house for 
love or money.” 

“I ’ve been married three years,” said Mrs. Har- 
ris, “and haven’t kept house, and I never mean to 
do it. I have no responsibility whatever.” 

“But what if there were children?” said Mrs. 
Livingstone. 

“O, I am determined never to have any children,” 
said Mrs. Harris. “They are too much care and 
expense. Then all the worry and confusion, and 


“Hard to Find” 


45 


no time to one's self! When can you ever do any 
thinking ?” 

Mrs. Livingstone smiled. “At the best, I con- 
sider my thoughts not worth much; but they cer- 
tainly are better because of the children.” 

Mrs. Harris failed to appreciate Mrs. Living- 
stone’s remark, and rattled on. 

“All my married friends are of the same opinion. 
Some of them live in great apartment-houses in 
New York, and simply could not stand any more 
outlay.” 

“They should move, then,” ventured Mrs. Liv- 
ingstone, “into less extravagant surroundings. Sim- 
pler living would solve many problems.” 

“But most people are in for a good time,” said 
Miss Jennings. 

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Harris, “and they will have 
it, too, no matter what it costs.” 

And so these girlish women chitter-chattered 
for two long hours, until Mrs. Livingstone excused 
herself to superintend the preparation for dinner. 
They thought they were enjoying life to its full, 
and, though they would not have said it before her, 
they really felt a sort of pity for Mrs. Livingstone. 
With all their pity, however, they found her home 
a delightful place to visit, and, in many a spin on 
their wheels, had fixed their destination at Maple 
Grove. There was something in the abundance of 


46 


Her Realm 


rich cream, in the constantly-flowing spring-water, 
in the luxuriant shade, and, if they only knew it, 
much more in the calm and strength and sweetness 
of this self-possessed woman, that drew them, now 
and then, away from the heat and noise and endless 
engagements of the city. They found this day, as 
on other occasions, full of wholesome rest and pleas- 
ure. Evidently, they were disposed to prolong the 
stay to its utmost limit. For it was past the middle 
of the afternoon, when, being much refreshed, they 
reluctantly arose to go. Walking leisurely down 
the drive to the highway, they headed their wheels 
south, and set out upon the return, keeping the 
course in silence for three miles, until they reached 
the village, when they turned directly north, fol- 
lowing the cinder path up the valley toward the 
city. This cinder path is on what used to be the 
old plank road, which carried traffic between the 
towns in the days before the railroad. Many a man 
born since the advent of the railroad can still re- 
member the planks through the main street, and 
with what aristocratic pride he used to hear the 
wheels of his father’s carriage roll over them. What 
contemptuous pity he would feel for the unfortu- 
nate boy, whose father chose the dirt road ! But the 
planks have long been gone, for the electric cars 
have made their sacrilegious entrance into the clas- 
sic village; and cars are always democratic. 

These young ladies wheeled up the valley that 


“Hard to Find” 


47 


afternoon intent upon a good spin, little caring for 
the historic associations of the Tioughnioga. They 
were unmoved by thought of the heroic woman who, 
a century ago, for six long weeks the only inhab- 
itant of the village, had braved the drifting snow 
and the howling wolves. Yet they must have spun 
right past where her defenseless home had stood. 
Nor did these wheelwomen care for the legend of 
the valley ; the capture of the Indian maiden, Alta- 
halah; the fruitless search by braves, headed by 
Ke-no-tah, her lover; the departure of the red men 
from the Tioughnioga; and, finally, the gathering 
of the shades of evening ; the reclining of Altahalah 
upon the banks of her “native river,” chanting “the 
favorite air of her noble brave;” then the lowering 
clouds, the “rumbling thunder,” the leaping light- 
ning, the torrents of rain, the passing of the storm, 
the plashing of oars, the gliding of a canoe, and, 
after long years of separation, the joyous meeting 
of Altahalah and Ke-no-tah. Miss Jennings and 
Mrs. Harris had no ear to catch the echoes of this 
beautiful tradition. They were out for a spin. 

Yet if Mrs. Livingstone had been along that 
river, the falling water and the lengthening shadows 
would have sung the whole mysterious story into her 
soul. She would have seen the night grow dark, 
heard the wind rage and felt the storm “gathering 
about the Great Lakes.” Then she would have be- 
held Ke-no-tah “nerve his right arm to crush the 


48 


Her Realm 


destroyer,” until in fancy she would have followed 
an Indian trail, or sat about the council fire to the 
northward. Not so with these practical young 
ladies. They had covered ten miles before once 
looking at the hills. And as for the Red Man that, 
years before, upon the highest peak, defended his 
wigwam from the prowling wolves, they never even 
thought of him. Having neared the lakes midway 
of their journey, they dismounted to rest under the 
shade of a tree. 

“My, this is hot!” said Miss Jennings. 

“Well, I should think so!” said Mrs. Harris, 
drying the perspiration from her face, and fanning 
herself with her hat. 

“Do you know,” said her friend, after a pause, 
“that Mrs. Livingstone is a remarkable woman?” 

“Indeed, she is,” was the reply. “How she 
could be content to spend her days so quietly, with 
those children for almost her sole companions, I do 
not see.” 

“If she were in the city,” replied Miss Jennings, 
“she could hold any place she might choose. She 
is a charming talker. I have heard people say that 
when she was in college she had promise of an 
enviable reputation. But out there on that dairy 
farm I should like to know who is to be benefited 
by her accomplishments.” 

“Those seven children, no doubt,” laughed Mrs. 
Harris. “But she is welcome to that circumscribed 


“Hard to Find” 49 

life. For my part, I want my influence to go farther 
than a single hillside and seven youngsters.” 

Miss Jennings assented to what her friend had 
said, and, being revived, they wheeled on, fixing 
their attention once more upon the cinder path and 
their own increasing speed, and losing sight alto- 
gether of the forest-covered hills. 

Scarcely had Mrs. Livingstone dismissed the 
two young ladies that afternoon, when she was 
called to the door by the arrival of Rev. Mr. Long 
and wife, out from the village for a pastoral call. 
They were delightful people, and their coming al- 
ways gave Mrs. Livingstone a glimpse of the out- 
side world altogether stimulating. She was not 
confining her influence to that hillside in those 
strong, energetic years of her life, because she felt 
no inclination to go elsewhere. That altar in the 
woods could otherwise testify. Indeed, as before 
indicated, she had a passion for the world in its 
need that became at times almost unbearable. So 
when some one came with a report of its doings she 
felt consoled by the fact that others were privileged 
to respond to its sorrowing cry. The coming of 
Mr. and Mrs. Long just at this time was peculiarly 
fortunate, for the visit of Miss Jennings and Mrs. 
Harris had been a trifle disquieting, and had left 
Mrs. Livingstone in a mood to appreciate the com- 
pany of sympathetic friends, such as the minister and 
his wife had invariably proven themselves. But some- 
4 


50 


Her Realm 


how, whether Mrs. Livingstone’s frame of mind 
was at fault, or the preacher and his wife were less 
responsive than usual, they failed to impart any 
comforting influence. The truth is, Mrs. Living- 
stone’s home had been such a place of rest to the 
busy pastor that he had usually come to receive help 
rather than give it. So to-day he did not anticipate 
any need of bringing consolation, and was not on 
the lookout for opportunities of that kind. At any 
rate, a good deal had come across Mrs. Living- 
stone’s path of late to make her feel that the world 
in general, and some of her friends in particular, 
regarded a woman with children as occupying an 
exceedingly limited and unimportant place 1 . So 
she was not altogether prepared for peaceful re- 
sistance, when, in the course of the conversation, 
Mr. Long remarked: 

“Mrs. Livingstone, it seems a little unfortunate 
that a woman of your capacity should not be able 
to do more Church work.” 

Her dark eyes flashed. How could he say it? 
But she commanded herself, and, pointing to her 
boys out in the grainfield with their father, said 
calmly : “There is my Church work.” 

He saw at once that he had made a mistake, but 
he foolishly thought that by going on he could mend 
matters. 

“I ought not to have mentioned it, but I was 


51 


“Hard to Find” 

thinking of the many children that never knew of a 
mother’s care.” 

Did she not often think of it ? And had not that 
thought, like a spectral presence, often shadowed 
her footsteps over those hills, until she settled it 
once more at the altar under the trees? For it was 
never an all-satisfying comfort that her own were 
safe. Some mother’s own were out in the cold, 
with the wolves on their track ; and days when hers 
seemed dearest, the pathos of human suffering 
seemed the most real. 

“But your competent help,” continued the 
preacher, rather blindly — for he was getting in 
deeper and deeper — “would enable you to do what 
you could not otherwise accomplish.” 

“Certainly, but I keep help that I may have 
strength to give my best to my family. When Mr. 
Livingstone and the boys come in, it is always, 
‘Where is mother?’ Often the sound of my voice 
is all they want. They turn, and go out satisfied.” 

She had not meant to say so much, for she abom- 
inated the habit of attempting to justify one’s con- 
duct. She admired the man or woman who, seeing 
duty, had the courage to do it, without regard to 
the comments of others. Her conscience was very 
exacting. She could not help doing as she did, and 
she was not seeking for commendation. But Mr. 
Long’s remarks, just at that time, provoked her 


52 


Her Realm 


to rather unusual vehemence. Happily for all con- 
cerned, a boy’s merry whistle was heard from the 
meadow, and, sooner than seemed credible, Leroy 
burst somewhat unceremoniously into the parlor, 
with his hat in one hand and a bunch of evening 
primroses in the other. Barely nodding to Mr. and 
Mrs. Long, in his eagerness, he laid the flowers in 
his mother’s lap, saying: “These are for you, or 
you may call them yours. They are yours and mine 
together.” For he liked to be in partnership with 
her. Then, bowing himself out, he whistled to 
Victor, and was off for the cows. The conversa- 
tion turned upon more profitable topics, and a de- 
licious country supper apparently covered over the 
previous unhappy remarks. 

Soon after, Mr. and Mrs. Long drove back to 
town. But woe to Mrs. Livingstone! No sooner 
had she lost sight of her departing guests than she 
saw the slowly-approaching figure of Mrs. Miflin. 
Under the most favorable circumstances it took a 
large stock of grace to be hospitable to this neigh- 
borhood gossip. Her royal highness lived a mile 
and a half away, and occasionally walked over to 
air her opinions. Although not possessed of much 
wealth, she had more than many others of her 
station, having several thousands in bank. Hence 
she was authority on economy, and the very last 
one on the road to give to a case of need. Fifteen 
cents to help replace a widow’s barn, after its de- 


“Hard to Find” 


53 


struction by lightning, was considered a liberal do- 
nation. Mrs. Miffin had no children. Consequently, 
she possessed invaluable rules for their manage- 
ment, and, in season and out of season, attempted 
to enlighten other women. She was a most em- 
phatic exponent of the general law that one’s knowl- 
edge upon this subject varies inversely with her 
experience}. Even upon ordinary occasions, she 
carried her head full of neighborly news items. Her 
statements were equally positive, whether the facts 
were true or false. To-day, however, she had been 
calling in the village, and wishing, as was her cus- 
tom, to discuss the latest rumors, so announced to 
Mrs. Livingstone. Whereupon that woman became 
utterly noncommunicative, for she always felt that 
it was casting “pearls before swine” to speak her 
convictions to this intruder. So she merely nodded 
and smiled at her neighbor’s thrusts until she must 
have given an impression of unusual stupidity; for 
in an incredibly short time Mrs. Miffin left. 

At that moment Mr. Livingstone drove from 
the barn with his beautiful bays. He. was going 
over the western hill to engage help for harvest, 
and would take the children for a ride. Mary 
clapped her hands with glee; for she liked to see 
the “lightning-bugs” that made the hollows twinkle. 
Mrs. Livingstone watched them as they turned up 
the hill. Then, directing some preparations for the 
morrow, she set forth, climbing the same slope, but 


54 


Her Realm 


her path was through the pasture, toward her favor- 
ite retreat. Just as she entered the grove, they 
were passing under the old pine tree up the road. 
She paused to look back upon the valley, and, in the 
distance, the village by the river. She could dis- 
tinguish the old church, with its spire pointing heav- 
enward. The church ! How she loved it, and all 
the good work it was doing in the world! She 
was praying for it, and freely contributing of her 
substance. All she was holding back just now was 
her time, of which she was givng only a limited 
amount. At least, so it appeared to outsiders. Even 
that day she had been pitied by some and censured 
by others. She knew, too, the theory of many well- 
meaning people, that wherever there is a weak place 
in this world, woman must come to strengthen it, 
wherever a foul place, woman must come to purify, 
and so extend her influence to business and politics. 
Not very much appreciation was shown for the un- 
progressive woman who chose the old paths. What 
about the weak places? If it was so hard to find 
a reliable young man, where was the difficulty? Was 
it altogether in the temptation of busness life, in 
the enormities of the liquor-traffic, or in the cor- 
ruptions of politics? Mrs. Livingstone was now 
looking with yearning eyes out over those slopes 
and down the valley to the village. The shadows 
were already creeping up the opposite hillside. 
Everything was so still and beautiful ! There 


“Hard to Find” 


55 


seemed no place for sin in all that lovely valley. 
Yet she knew it was there. She could point to this 
housetop and that under which lurked hideous skel- 
etons. And yet in those homes were fathers and 
mothers who were “corner-stones” and “pillars” un- 
derneath yonder church-tower. Think of it! That 
tall spire making its mute appeal to inmates of such 
homes! Was it strange that not many young men 
ever crossed the village green in response to its 
pleading ? Where, O where, was the one weak place 
in the world’s make-up? To Mrs. Livingstone the 
answer was evident. If over every Christian home 
there could preside a woman, with faith and cour- 
age to any limit, for the building of character in 
her boys and girls, a large part of the missionary 
training and temperance work of the Church would 
then be accomplished. However, she would not 
minify the heroic endeavor of those self-sacrificing 
women who had sought to patch the broken image 
of manhood. Rather would she magnify the im- 
portance of molding plastic clay, and honor the 
woman who loyally guarded beginnings. 

Mrs. Livingstone turned her footsteps into the 
woods. She was soon at the altar, under branches 
high and arched and intertwined, leaving an open 
space beneath like the interior of a cathedral, with 
an outlook toward the west. Here she paused, gaz- 
ing across the sloping meadow beyond, to the 
western sky all aflame with golden glory. She 


56 


Her Realm 


thought of the precious load riding that evening 
toward the sunset, and her heart took courage. 

“I am right, I am right,” she said, and the woods 
heard her. “I can not make others understand it. 
But God knows. And it may be that the world will 
sometimes know that a woman, in the years gone 
by, had conviction enough to close her heart to its 
glittering hopes and opportunities, and throw the 
strength of her love into the quiet but far- 
reaching work of planting within her own children 
the image of Him who walked in Galilee.” 

She was sure that thus she could best serve the 
world; and the trees that night, and the chirping 
birds, and the chattering squirrels understood her. 

The glow in the west had become faint when she 
emerged again from the woods. The hills were 
darkening with purple shadows. The stars one 
by one were lighting the blue above. The wind 
was singing low and sweet its wondrous song among 
the corn leaves, as Mrs. Livingstone, with that song 
in her heart, walked lightly through the sleek herd 
of cows, resting in the orchard, and she was glad. 
Listening, she heard a voice above the corn: “See 
that thou make all things according to the pattern 
showed to thee in the mount.” 


CHAPTER IV 


TENDER HOPES 

From her altar in the woods, that summer night, 
Lucretia Livingstone carried in her soul something 
of the glory of the sunset. And after that she 
molded the clay even more tenderly, and followed 
the “pattern” a little more carefully. Often in the 
long winter evenings, when the lessons had been 
learned, she would sit reading “Hiawatha,” “Enoch 
Arden,” or “Evangeline” to her audience of seven 
eager listeners, as she alone knew how to read. 
And the music of her voice would hold every eye 
upon her. Even Constance was fascinated by the 
rhythmical flow of the words. Sometimes the 
pathos of the story would roll out full and deep 
under her matchless interpretation. On such oc- 
casions Mr. Livingstone would listen until his heart 
was breaking, then rise and leave the room. One 
evening when the cadence of her voice had been 
unusually tender, he interrupted long enough to 
say : “You will never do a greater work than this.” 
Then he put on his coat and cap and went out into 
the night. The air was cold. The snow, white and 
57 


58 


Her Realm 


still, enshrouded the sloping meadows. A low dirge 
sung through the bare maple branches. Out under 
the glorious starlight he stood until he could endure 
it no longer; then he walked to the barn, and, roll- 
ing back the door, entered. It was warm inside, 
and he strolled down the long rows of stanchions, 
stroking his pets, and pouring out his fear to them : 

“O my Daffodil, my Lily Bell, my Maude, my 
Aurora Leigh, you beauties! But what would you 
be without her?” 

Then he thought of the seven trustful faces 
before the firelight, and his heart was torn. “What 
could they do?” he cried. And he went on down 
the lines of cattle, until he came to the end. He 
was proud of his dairy. By intelligent attention to 
details, he had developed a business reputation far 
beyond the limits of his own county. The products 
of his farm were always in demand. From a finan- 
cial point of view, he had already proven his sa- 
gacity in locating in the country. Not a man in 
the valley had equaled him. But what were his 
fruitful fields, his barns, his thoroughbred cows, or 
his butter trade? What was his beautiful home? 
Mockery apart from her ! 

At length he returned to the house. No one 
was in the sitting-room. He dropped into a chair, 
and stretched his feet toward the grate. The place 
was full of warmth and cheer, because she had 
made it so. Without her, the soul of it would be 



BN**- 




HE STRETCHED HIS FEET TOWARD THE GRATE 



Tender Hopes 


59 


gone. He scarcely seemed to have realized so 
fully before how essential she was to his very life. 
Resting his head on his hand, he listened. She 
was in the children’s room upstairs. He could 
hear her read from the Book of Acts about Paul’s 
leavetaking of the brethren at Ephesus. He had 
always thought it sad. But to-night it was unbear- 
able. When he heard her read the sentence, “Sor- 
rowing most of all for the words which he spake, 
that they should see his face no more,” he nearly 
cried out in his agony. Then the reading ceased. 

Mrs. Livingstone gave each a good-night kiss. 
When she came to Leroy, he put up his arms and 
held her. 

“You ’re the best mother in the world,” said he. 

“I am not as good as I ought to be,” she an- 
swered. 

“You’re good enough for me!” was his stout 
reply. 

Then she wondered whether there might not 
be some truth in the words : 

“When the world may do its worst, 

God and she have had them first. ” 

She closed the stove, put out the light, and 
went downstairs. Mr. Livingstone had drawn 
a tete-a-tete close in front of the fire, and stood 
waiting for her. The hour after the children were 
in bed always belonged to him ; and something very 


60 


Her Realm 


extraordinary must occur to call him away from 
home. 

“Let us sit very close together,” said he, draw- 
ing her lovingly down beside him. Then he kissed 
her. The glow of the fire and of his manner crim- 
soned her cheeks, until she turned her face from 
his gentle gaze. 

“Look at me, darling,” said he. Her eyes, so 
full of sincerest loyalty, were lifted to his. “This 
is like the first time I told you,” said he ; “but I 
never loved you as I do to-night.” She put her 
hand in his in tenderest appreciation, still looking 
into his eyes. In that solemn moment, all the anx- 
iety of the previous hour seemed to sweep over 
him, and he could scarce restrain himself. 

“O what is it?” she said, suddenly; for she saw 
the pained expression. 

“Do you not know?” he asked with unsteady 
voice. “Lucretia, darling, I am afraid, I am afraid. 
What if — ” But he did not finish. 

“O you must not be afraid,” she said. “I am 
not. I never knew such joy as I feel to-night.” 

As she spoke, she seemed to him like a being 
transfigured. Perhaps it was because she held 
within her heart such strange, sweet hopes. 

“I know you have no fear. You are brave. 
But I could not live without you.” She looked at 
him with eyes so full of love and yearning that 
you would have thought she could not live without 
him. “You must not leave me,” he implored. 


Tender Hopes 


61 


“I shall not leave you,” she said, simply. 

“I wish I had your faith, Lucretia.” 

Then, with his arm folding her tenderly, he 
sat for some minutes, gazing into the fire. What he 
saw there, and what she saw as she sat beside him, 
only they knew. 

Often after that, out in the barn, passing down 
the stanchion rows, he would stroke his pets, and 
say: “We could not get along without her, my 
beauties.” It was a pathetic sight. And yet, some- 
how, he fancied he saw in their intelligent faces a 
look of conscious sympathy. It seemed to bring 
him comfort. He did not feel free to communicate 
his fear to any one else, not even to his wife, since 
that winter evening. Nor could he cause sorrow 
to his children by committing to them his secret. 
So he and the Jerseys shared it together. Whether 
or not Mrs. Livingstone maintained her uniform 
courage, often, during the following months, when 
he did not seem to see, she would let her work fall 
from her hands, and sit looking at him with such 
pitying eyes. She could not help knowing of his 
anxiety. 

But the days sped, happy days for the school- 
children, who indulged in snowballing, skating, or 
coasting, according to the hardness of the ice or 
snow. When the winter was over, they thought 
there never had been one like it before, and never 
would be again. During three days in February not 
a man drove up the valley ; for no mortal could well 


62 


Her Realm 


get through the drifts. The top of the barn, only, 
could be seen from the house, because of the snow 
piled high between them. One of the dining-room 
windows was entirely covered by the heaping of 
the feathery flakes upon the porch. Wintry days 
in the North are always wonderful to well-clothed 
and well-fed children. They know nothing of the 
pathos of human want without, and can enjoy to 
the full the delight of their white-walled castle. Of 
course, this three days’ storm broke up the coast- 
ing and the skating. But what of that? Such 
stories as they told ! Some were original, some 
borrowed. The snow could account for either. At 
times, in their imagination, the house was trans- 
formed into a glittering palace, inhabited by won- 
drously-beautiful princes and princesses, clad in gor- 
geous apparel. Again, it was the den of a giant 
ogre, and the scene of the most horrifying deeds 
ever committed. What narrow escapes they had! 
They trembled at the creations of their own fancy. 
So the house would ring with exclammations of 
delight, or shrieks of terror, as the occasion de- 
manded. 

The winter passed, and almost before any one 
knew it, the flowers were opening under the April 
rains. Now the month of May is two-thirds gone. 
Hepaticas, spring beauties, adder’s-tongue, and 
squirrel-corn are out of bloom. The trillium is 
fading. Jack-in-the-pulpit opens, while the man- 


Tender Hopes 


63 


drake awaits unfolding. O these May days are 
simply ravishing! One feasts his soul on beauty, 
and is satisfied. It is Sunday afternoon, and, though 
still May, the air has lost the touch of summer, 
and a breath of November blows over the hills, 
lying rich and dark beneath overhanging clouds. 
The maple foliage, the blossoms having fallen, has 
become luxuriant, though still retaining that rap- 
turous green that makes one cry for very ecstasy, 
and covers the meadows and grainfields with a halo 
as of some enchanted land. Twilight draws on, 
with everywhere the calm and repose of a Sunday 
evening in the country. “Perfection! Perfection !” 
is the word upon one's lip. But at his heart some- 
thing tugs that is not all exuberant. A melan- 
choly chord vibrates; for the glory arches a life- 
time, and he is treading again the bright paths 
of childhood; and, looking backward in the gath- 
ering shadows of such a day, a minor note sings 
in his heart, and the glow of the past outshines 
the perfection of beauty resting upon the present. 

Mr. Livingstone stood dazed, out under the 
maples. He was looking back to the time when, 
care-free, he roamed those hills. The glorious light 
of a day like this had then no touch of pain. For 
a moment only did he turn backward. He must 
face the present, though it were full to the hilltops 
with anguish. He was a man. He would stand 
erect. Then, there were his children. They needed 


64 


Her Realm 


him now as never before. He went from under the 
maples, into the parlor, and up the stairs, to the 
best room in the house. There, on a small cot, lay 
a tiny boy, with heaven-blue eyes; and on the bed 
lay the form of the woman who, for love’s sake, 
had gone into the shadows. By the window stood 
the family physician, looking regretfully out among 
the maple leaves. He had just said to the nurse, 
“This is when a man does not like to be a doctor — 
when he can’t relieve suffering. But when he 
can’t—” 

Then Mr. Livingstone entered, and, with his 
appealing eyes, read the answer to the question 
he would ask. No hope ! No hope ! Yet she had 
not feared. He recalled that night by the fire, 
with the glow of health and beauty in her face. 
He saw her now with blanched lips and closed eyes. 
Just then a robin in the maple above the window, 
having lost its young, was pouring into the twilight 
the saddest lament. Mr. Livingstone could endure 
no more. He crossed the hall to the room where 
his children were. Lawrence and Charlotte stood 
looking out of the window toward the grove, where 
they had so often gathered flowers for mother. In- 
deed, there was now a vase of violets in her room 
that had been placed there the night before. 

“I thought the woods were beautiful until to- 
day,” said Charlotte. “But they never will be beau- 
tiful again.” 


Tender Hopes 


65 


Mr. Livingstone knew they might for the child ; 
but they could not for him. In a corner of the room 
crouched Lilian, trying to hush her own anguish. 
She never said much, but, though young, she felt 
deeply; and with her such a wound as this would 
be long in healing. Norman and Leroy had for- 
gotten the “merry whistled tunes” of yesterday; 
and Mary had her face buried among the pillows. 
The father of these stricken children sank into a 
chair, and they came to him. Constance was upon 
his knee. She seemed to be listening to something 
outside. 

Presently she said, “I hear somebody calling. I 
think the birds are calling mother.” 

“No, dear,” said Mr. Livingstone, trying to 
smile, “the birds are not calling, but God is calling.” 

“Is he? Will he take my mother away? Then 
I do n’t like God.” And Mr. Livingstone did not 
try just then to make her understand. 

He could not stay long from his wife’s room, 
but returned, and, siting down beside her, looked 
steadily into her face. She was almost over. Just 
one more pull and her boat would have touched 
the other side, where she would see her “Pilot 
face to face.” He knew that then she would not 
be afraid. And he ought not to fear. But his heart 
quailed. How could he help it? He did not take 
his eyes from her face. The minutes ticked away, 
and the hours, until near midnight. He was alone 
5 


66 


Her Realm 


with her. The others had quietly left the room, 
that they might not look upon his grief; for noth- 
ing could be done. Her boat seemed still to hold its 
course within the stream. He thought he heard 
the whir of wings high in the maple branches. He 
started. Were the angels coming? He watched 
to see them bear her away, and he felt that ever 
after he should think of those maples as a pathway 
to the stars. But, hark! the muffled tones of the 
clock in the room below strike twelve. He is still 
gazing upon her face. Just then a hand touches 
his arm. It is the doctor’s. He also has stood for 
some minutes looking upon that same face. 

“Livingstone,” said he, “have hope.” 

“What, did they not take her ? I though I heard 
them carry her away.” 

Just then she opened her eyes, and, though they 
seemed almost to look from the other shore, they 
plainly said to him, “I am not afraid.” 

Glancing upward he heard from somewhere 
these words : “Be of good comfort.” 

At length morning dawned, and with it there 
swayed through the trees the breath of summer. 
All the chill of the day before had gone. The blue 
upon the distant hills spoke peace and cheer. The 
birds filled the air with melody. Out from the 
shadow of the previous night the Livingstone 
household had come with great rejoicing. 

She was much loved through the valley; and 


Tender Hopes 


67 


when neighbors came early to find how she was, 
they almost feared to ask. Mrs. Thornton drove 
all the way from the village, and when told by the 
faithful servant of the change, looked relieved. 
But she said heartlessly, “What a pity that she 
should have had any more children !” 

Upstairs, at that moment, was the mother just 
returning to consciousness, and the sweet prophecy 
in her heart was this : “The child for whom I went 
deepest into the valley may yet bring me the largest 
joy.” Mr. Livingstone saw the smile upon her 
lips, and was glad. Then the door opened softly, 
and Charlotte brought in a bountiful contribution 
from the woods of the richest blue violets. They 
were placed where she could look upon them and 
grow strong. 


CHAPTER V 


“THE HAND THAT ROCKS THE 
CRADLE” 

When Mrs. Thornton drove out again to Maple 
Grove it was midsummer. By the servant’s per- 
mission she entered unannounced, and found her 
friend very pale, but beautiful, looking into the 
deep-blue eyes of the wee boy upon her lap. Mrs. 
Livingstone lifted to her a face of such transporting 
joy as she could not understand. “One would sup- 
pose by this time,” thought Mrs. Thornton, “that a 
baby would have ceased to be a wonder!” Did 
she not know that it was not so much the wonder of 
the baby as the prophecy of the man that lighted 
the mother’s face ? 

“How can I forgive you for not bringing Mar- 
garet and Horace?” asked Mrs. Livingstone. 

“I feared to disturb you,” was the reply. “Some- 
how the noise of the children makes me nervous, 
and I have only two. I do not know what it would 
be with eight.” 

Mrs. Livingstone gave her a look of pain. She 
said quietly: “You have much more than I to try 
68 


“The Hand that Rocks the Cradle” 69 


your nerves. I rather think that if I had no children 
at all, and were attempting the variety of public 
work that you conduct, I should be distracted.” 

Mrs. Thornton felt the truth of the statement; 
for she was in a constant nervous tension that was 
nearly setting her wild. She appeared to take little 
notice, however, and went on : 

“Not since my marriage have I enjoyed life as 
much as during the last two years. The children 
are out of my arms, and are not much care to me. 
I am free to come and go when I please. Then 
Mr. Thornton’s evenings are all taken at the office. 
You do not know what a relief it is to be no longer 
tied down by domestic duties.” 

It must be confessed that Mrs. Livingstone was 
unable to appreciate any such freedom. Doubtless 
she looked somewhat mystied as she listened to 
Mrs. Thornton’s enthusiastic utterance. In her 
schooldays she had tasted the joys of public appro- 
bation. She had seen its effect upon some women 
since. She had seen the unselfish grow grasping, 
the contented become dissatisfied, the home-loving 
restless; and she had reached the conclusion that 
the praise of the world was not always sweet. There 
was a little bitter in the cup. Indeed, she had 
heard some of the most devoted leaders in reform 
say that, if they were not divinely compelled to 
do the work, they could not stand before the public 
eye and endure its censure. The noisy world knows 


70 


Her Realm 


not how to feed a woman’s soul. But what mother 
with a heart does not covet the exquisite joy of 
resting, book in hand, by her own firelight, with 
her children tucked safely in bed! Yet not all are 
thus privileged. The world needs some women as 
teachers, nurses, and missionaries, to help alleviate 
suffering, and banish ignorance, cruelty, and super- 
stition; and to many noble souls it becomes a part 
of heroic sacrifice. Mrs. Livingstone fully appre- 
ciated all this. What came near exasperating her 
was to hear the sacred obligation of motherhood 
assailed. She did not exactly know how to answer 
Mrs. Thornton, so she simply waited for her to 
go on. 

"I must say,” at length continued her guest, 
“that I do not know what to do with Horace. The 
nurse can not control him. And I have about de- 
cided that it will be cheaper to board him at the 
convent than to hire a nurse and keep him at home.” 

“Monstrous!” said Mrs. Livingstone, with 
great vehemence. She was indignant, but she held 
herself. If anything appealed to her sense of jus- 
tice, it was the sight of a boy that needed moth- 
ering. She had always felt such to be the case 
with Horace Thornton, nothing more. Only a 
steady, wise, loving hand to lead him, and there 
would be no excuse for sending him to the con- 
vent. If the case had been hers, she would have 
thought it worth while, even for just one, to hide 


“The Hand that Rock& the Cradle” 71 


for a time from the world, that she might fix the 
character of her child. 

“God has not given you such a beautiful home, 
and all that heart could wish, to have you turn your 
boy over to that institution for training! I would 
keep him at home or die in the effort.” 

“You certainly take it very seriously.” 

“I certainly do,” said she. 

Evidently the conversation of that afternoon, 
in Mrs. Thornton’s case, was a mild corrective; 
for the convent proposition was never again men- 
tioned. And the next time she came to Maple 
Grove, she brought Margaret and Horace. They 
went wild over the baby. Margaret was a sweet 
child of eight. She stood looking for some min- 
utes into the little face, when she said suddenly: 

“Mamma, I wish you would go to the Chil- 
dren’s Home, and get two just like him. I wish 
you would get four!” 

“Yes, do,” said Horace. 

Mrs. Thornton was annoyed. Soon Leroy and 
Mary took their guests out into the meadows, up 
in the orchard to the spring, and to the woods 
and showed them where the flowers grew, though 
not many were in bloom. They saw the barns full 
of contented cows, and the foaming milk fill the 
pails. It was a great day. And Mrs. Thornton 
let them enjoy it. She even consented to remain 
till after supper. The way those children devoured 


72 


Her Realm 


the blackberries and cream was remarkable to be- 
hold. One would imagine that they had eaten 
nothing for a week. 

On the way home that night there was an un- 
wonted calm in the usually restless eyes of Mrs. 
Thornton, and a peaceful smile upon her lips. The 
explanation was easy. By her side two happy chil- 
dren laughed and chatted over the day’s delights; 
and she, lost in their joy, for the time forgot the 
club, the Mothers’ Meeting, the gathering of the 
directors of the Children’s Home, the meeting of 
the Ladies’ Aid Society, and the paper to be writ- 
ten on “Modern Fiction.” And so she found sweet 
consolation in the companionship of her children. 

The next afternoon, however, two rather dis- 
consolate little people were sitting upon Mrs. 
Thornton’s front porch, watching the passers-by 
along the street. Presently Horace said solemly: 

“I don’t like this. I wish we were at Aunt 
Lucretia’s. It ’s lots more fun there than it is 
here.” 

“Yes,” put in Margaret, with some hesitation, 
as though not caring to compromise her own home, 
and yet admitting the truth of her brother’s remarks. 

“I ’d go and live at Maple Grove and be Aunt 
Lucretia’s boy, if mamma would let me. Then I 
could run all over the meadows and woods, and 
milk the cows, and maybe I could cut the hay. And 
just think of that big silo they were filling yesterday ! 


“The Hand that Rocks the Cradle” 73 


Wasn’t it fun to see the corn shoot up into it?” 
He paused to catch breath, then went on: “But 
here all a boy can do is to wear his white suit, and 
sit on the front porch, or walk with the nurse in 
the garden or down the street. I just hate it!” 
Then he paused two or three minutes, expecting 
his sister to reply. He evidently considered his 
utterance deserving of notice. She merely looked 
at him, however, as though awaiting something 
further. Soon he simply said: “It wouldn’t be 
quite so bad, if we had mamma.” 

“No, but mamma has to be at the club this 
afternoon,” said Margaret. 

“I don’t believe Aunt Lucretia ever went to a 
club. I did n’t hear her say anything about it,” 
replied Horace, somewhat regretfully. 

“You know,” replied Margaret, “how pretty 
mkmma looks when she is dressed to go away. 
We ought to feel proud of her. That ’s what the 
nurse says.” 

“She doesn’t look half as sweet as Aunt Lu- 
cretia did yesterday, with that little boy in her arms. 
So there!” 

His small world was terribly out of joint that 
afternoon. He was trying real hard just then to 
be proper and stay at home and keep his clothes 
clean. But the effort did not last long. The at- 
tractions outside the gate were so much more fas- 
cinating that those within, that he was soon gone. 


74 


Her Realm 


Just at nightfall, the neighbors saw a lady turn 
in at the side entrance. Then, as often before, they 
heard: “Horace! Horace !” But no response. 

“Call a little louder, mother. He is not far away 
to-night, just down the street in front of the store. 
He will hear if you call loud enough. Or, at 
least, he will come, if you take him by the hand 
and lead him home.” This is what some would 
have said, if they had spoken. 

Three miles up the valley, another mother had 
laid her baby to rest for the night. Then she had read 
to her band of seven that wonderful chapter end- 
ing, “Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil 
with good.” Finally, she had gone downstairs to 
meet her husband. He was waiting for her as 
usual. He had no lamp, but stood in the open door 
in the moonlight. She came to him. He put his 
arm around her, and took her hand in his. Her 
face was still white, but he fancied the color rose 
in it as he talked. And the moonlight flooded the 
landscape. 

“But the dew is falling. We must not stand 
here,” he said, and gently drew her inside, still 
holding her hand. They sat within the warmth 
of a low fire in the grate. For in our Northern 
climate, sometimes the chill of a summer evening 
requires artificial heat. “Do you know what I have 
been thinking of late?” asked he. “It is this. 


“The Hand that Rocks the Cradle ” 75 

'The hand that rocks the cradle’ — you know the 
rest.” 

She smiled. “It takes a good deal of 'rocking’ 
sometimes. I certainly do not see how mothers 
can succeed who delegate the training of their chil- 
dren to others. Some one else can do the wash- 
ing, the sewing, and the baking, if necessary. But 
unless there is very urgent reason against it, I 
must make the care of the children my chief concern. 
If I am a misanthrope, it is the farthest from my 
intention. But I can not help thinking somewhat 
anxiously, at times, of certain tendencies these 
days.” 

“What, for instance, my dear?” 

“So many women chafing under domestic re- 
straint. They look upon such a life as one of bond- 
age, and are all the while sighing for liberty.” 

“Anything more ?” 

“Yes, though this may be related to my first 
observation. It is the mad rush of every man to 
keep up with the procession; as though, if he 
stopped to look behind, he would lose his footing, 
with no hope of ever rising again. Perhaps a more 
domestic ambition on the part of his wife would 
admit of a slower gait.” 

“No doubt,” said he. 

“I don’t know about all this club-work,” she 
continued. “It is a source of culture for women 


76 


Her Realm 


who have had few opportunities. But there seems 
to be no time for much else. Other activities of 
a purely benevolent character can not hold their 
right proportion of the time and thought of even 
Christian women. Besides, such abandonment to 
club interests must add to the decline in home life. 
Am I growing pessimistic, I wonder?” 

“No, you are not,” said Mr. Livingstone, “and 
your observations are true, whether spoken of men 
or women. Certainly, the club has its advantages, 
and, doubtless, has exerted a refining influence over 
many a home. But, on the other hand, I fear some 
people are paying a big price for these benefits.” 

“One should be careful,” replied Mrs. Living- 
stone, “not to put undue emphasis upon this one 
cause. Other conditions must share the responsi- 
bility. Whatever requires time and thought that 
belong to the family is harmful.” 

“Well?” questioned Mr. Livingstone. 

“Think how it is in the commercial world. 
Fathers and sons as traveling men, living at hotels, 
and gone weeks at a time ! Then, little children and 
mothers behind counters and in factories, helping 
to earn the bread for the household! Under such 
circumstances home loses much of its charm. Mod- 
ern life, socially, commercially, and intellectually, 
is at too quick a pace.” 

Then they were silent awhile. He picked up 
The Dairyman , to finish an article he was reading 


“The Hand that Rocks the Cradle” 77 


on the manufacture of high-grade butter; for he 
had been a close student of the demands of the 
trade, and was ready to adopt any necessary inno- 
vation to command the best market. She, for a 
little diversion, turned to a book of poems. Pres- 
ently she laid it aside. He had already finished 
his paper, and sat waiting for her. 

“Let me tell you, dearest,” said he, “you must 
not again pass into the shadow.” 

She looked a minute steadily into his face. 
“Possibly not,” she answered, slowly. “But we 
could not do without our beautiful boy. He will be 
such a sweet little companion when the others are 
in school. I will ‘rock the cradle/ and some day, 
it may be, he will — ” 

“Rule the world,” put in his father. 

“We shall see,” was her reply. 

The moonlight grew brighter. The shadows 
under the maples lay thick and dark. The frogs 
croaked. The crickets chirped. Under the magic 
spell of night, the household slept. 


CHAPTER VI 


HER SUBJECTS 

Constance, four years old at the time, stood by 
the window watching the first snowflakes fall among 
the trees. “Those look like birds cornin’ down,” 
she said. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Livingstone, “and if you will 
get me baby’s cloak, we will take him out to see the 
birds.” 

“O, Joe did that !” said the child. 

But who “Joe” was, no one could tell, except 
that he was an imaginary character, and for sev- 
eral months had been one of her favorite friends. 
Almost every day she had something to say about 
him or his family. When asked to do anything 
disagreeable, she found him a very convenient ac- 
quaintance. The fancy that he had done it seemed 
to relieve her of any responsibility in the matter. 
She always had much to do with people of the im- 
agination, besides ascribing imaginary attributes 
to her dolls. Often she sat rocking, nobody knows 
whom or what, and then would lay the little noth- 
ing on the bed with all the tenderness of a young 
mother. 


78 


Her Subjects 


79 


It probably could be said that she had in her 
make-up a wholesome mixture of good and bad. 
At least she had good enough to be somewhat lov- 
able, and bad enough to allay any unnecessary 
anxiety on the part of friends as to her immediate 
translation. The change from one state of grace 
to another was often very sudden. One hour it was 
marvelous what an evil spirit could do with a small 
girl; the next, she was a perfect angel. She had 
moods as various as an April sky. A crotchety 
old woman of the neighborhood had once said 
of the Livingstone children : “They are good, 
but I have seen smarter.” It came to be a great 
joke among them afterward. But evidently, Con- 
stance had been appointed to save the reputation 
of the family. She was neither very good, nor 
was she stupid. 

Little Caryl afforded her a great deal of amuse- 
ment and some annoyance as the months rolled by. 
One day she was contemplating his toothless mouth, 
and naturally concluded that she once must have 
been like him. Ever after that she was wont to 
refer to the time, “years ago,” when she was a 
“little boy without any teeth.” 

She was always ready with an answer. One 
day, Mrs. Livingstone, in an effort to secure obedi- 
ence, said: 

“I can't have a little girl live with me who 
won’t do what I say.” 


80 


Her Realm 


“But I ’m here/’ said Constance, with a mis- 
chievous look. 

Her dolls were an interesting company. “Rosy 
Posy” was the first; but she broke that in a fit of 
anger, by striking against it the head of “Hel’n 
L’reeze” (Helen Louise). After that “Rosy 
Posy’s” place at the little table was vacant, and it 
really was pathetic. “Hel’n L’reeze” she lost, and 
afterward decided that she must have “left the 
earth and gone up in heaven.” 

Once she asked, “Was I robed in angel’s clothes 
when I came down to earth like a little baby?” 

At another time she said : “I do n’t see how God 
could make the world and us. I don’t see how 
we ’re anything, anyway. Do you know ?” she 
questioned her mother. 

“Not altogether,” was the answer. 

“Then I wish God would whisper to us how it 
is.. I mean to ask him some time.” 

In those days she often talked of heaven, and 
for a while seemed to want to go there, but after- 
ward decided she did not care to do so. Mrs. Liv- 
ingstone had read again and again to her children 
the little book called “Line upon Line,” a story of 
the Israelites, in which occasional reference was 
made to the sounding of the trumpets when the 
dead should rise. One day Constance electrified 
her mother, by saying: “I am not going to get up 
when the horns blow.” 


Her Subjects 


81 


“What horns ?” said Mrs. Livingstone. 

“The horns that say, “It 's time to get up from 
the grave.” 

She once came to her mother with this mys- 
terious question : “When people die, do they go 
roarin' up to heaven?” She may have associated 
the idea of the translation of disembodied spirits 
with reverberations of thunder. 

She had pronounced likes and dislikes; and her 
first impressions were usually correct. Of one 
woman, she said: “I like her very well, 'cause 
she 's strong and bounding ;” of another, “I do n't 
like her; she prays too hard.” 

For the most part, she was well; but one day, 
being requested by Mary to come and play, she 
replied: “I can't; something aches me.” Once 
she feared she should have “ammonia.” At an- 
other time, she bruised her knee. “O,” she cried, 
“I hurt the elbow of my leg!” 

Her table manners were occasionally somewhat 
dictatorial, and exasperating to Mary, whose prim 
conduct was the admiration of all. One evening 
at supper four-year-old Miss Constance had been 
ordering what she wanted without regard to the feel- 
ings of others. Mrs. Livingstone finally took her 
into the kitchen, and told her that if she wanted 
anything, she was to say, “Please pass the so-and- 
so.” She brightened at once, and came back with 
the air of a lady. For a time she ate in silence, 
6 


82 


Her Realm 


giving evidence of the wholesome effect of the 
previous interview. Then assuming much dignity, 
but with a mischievous glance at her mother, she 
said, “Please pass the so-and-so.” This tended to 
upset table decorum. Everybody tried to look 
sober, but not all succeeded. Yet Leroy, with the 
utmost gravity, managed to pass the cheese, which 
she graciously accepted, as though it were the very 
dish desired. 

Charlotte, whose manner was often awkwardly 
precise, could not see any use in the child’s per- 
formances; she might just as well obey promptly 
and speak respectfully. But she saw in years after- 
ward, when she had two children of her own. Then 
she marveled that her mother could have guided 
eight. 

Charlotte had never told more than one lie in her 
life. Hence Constance’s tendency to prevaricate 
was shocking. No one could tell how much was due 
to her fertile imagination, and how much to “total 
depravity.” Certain it was that the latter article 
of the creed was not likely to be stricken out by the 
Livingstone household, as long as Constance staid 
there. 

She used to “try races” with Mary, and later 
with Caryl; and she usually managed by some 
means, “foul” or “fair,” to “beat.” Once, when 
Mary was eight, and Constance was six, they set 
out to work covers for sofa pillows, each one to see 


Her Subjects 


83 


if she could finish before the other. The second 
morning, however, Mary’s material was nowhere 
to be found. Search was made from garret to 
cellar, Constance, the picture of innocence, cor- 
dially offering to help, assuming meanwhile an air 
of mysterious bewilderment as to the whereabouts 
of the missing article, and wondering who could 
have “disappeared it.” And yet her perplexity was 
so natural that nobody imagined for a moment that 
she had the remotest knowledge upon the subject. 
Investigation was continued at intervals for three 
days, until Mrs. Livingstone was pretty sure of her 
ground. 

Then one morning she said : “Come, Con- 
stance, suppose you and I look for Mary’s work.” 
Constance was only too glad. Mrs. Livingstone was 
a little shaken, but she went ahead. “Now, you look 
in every place where you think it might be.” 

And she led the way in their search, through 
the children’s room, into her own room, downstairs 
in the sitting-room, and in the parlor. At last they 
came to the “spare room.” 

“Shall we look under the feather-bed?” said 
Constance. 

“It would be well,” replied her mother. 

Then she began rolling it back; but no sewing 
material appeared. 

“Shall I roll it any farther?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Livingstone. 


84 


Her Realm 


One more turn, and there lay the lost work, 
wrinkled and creased by the weight of the bed. 

Lawrence was to take the children that morn- 
ing for a ride on the lake, seven miles north. They 
went. But Constance, contrary to her desire, was 
not among them. 

Her favorite occupations were to “ride down 
hill in winter and pick flowers in summer.” She 
called that “just living/’ Anything else was work. 
Her influence over Caryl was not always salutary. 
She once ventured this bit of confidence to Char- 
lotte : “If I had n’t taught him to be bad he would 
be the best boy in the country.” Of course, that 
“bad” was not very vicious, but probably the nat- 
ural outcropping of his own propensity, and not 
due, in any marked degree, to his sister’s example. 

He was fond of noise even at the age of two and 
a half years. One day he was pounding with his 
hammer. 

“I am glad,” said Constance, “that Mrs. Horner 
is n’t here, for she ’d have to have it stopped. It ’d 
pretty near drive her crazy, as she says. When I 
was yelling just softly, she said, ‘Stop your yelling 
like that!’ I would not like such a mother, would 
you?” 

She was not many years older, however, before 
she herself made vigorous protest against his con- 
tinual use of the hammer. It made her “nervous.” 
But she manifested a reasonable degree of leniency 


Her Subjects 


85 


toward him. One day when he had cut his mother’s 
quilt, causing a look of reproof, Constance hastened 
to say: “Caryl is worth more than the quilt, isn’t 
he? He ’s humanity, and the quilt is just cloth.” 

Being the youngest, there was really some dan- 
ger of his remaining a baby too long. No one 
wanted him to wear pants; and, strange to say, he 
did not care much about it himself. He wanted to 
be made into a little girl and called “Sarah,” for 
boys are “bad.” So when, at the age of five, there 
was talk of changing his costume, he expressed 
considerable wavering in opinion, and ended by 
saying : “I do n’t want to wear pants till I ’m six. 
I do n’t want to wear pants till I ’m twenty.” But 
after he had once put them on, he would rather 
be “frizzerin’ ” (a combination of “freezing” and 
“shivering”) than to wear Constance’s cloak. 

A little later Mrs. Livingstone found, as she 
had predicted, that he was a sweet companion to 
her when all the others were in school. It would 
do one good to see those two. They were almost 
inseparable. Morning, noon, and night, they were 
side by side, — in the woods for flowers, in the gar- 
den for vegetables, in the barn for eggs, or in the 
orchard for apples; or, if in none of these places, 
then, best of all, in the big rocking-chair, reading. 
He used to sit on the arm of her chair, with his feet 
in her lap, looking at the pictures while she fol- 
lowed the printed page. So often were they thus 


86 


Her Realm 


employed that Mr. Livingstone ordered the making 
of a “reading-chair.” In that, if the boy had had 
his way, almost all of his time would have been 
spent. Here they read ‘LEsop’s Fables,” “Little 
Lord Fauntleroy,” “The Jungle Book,” and to his 
great delight, when near the age of six, “What a 
Boy Saw in the Army.” He would listen to it, page 
after page, with the most eager attention, until he 
thought he “would like to go to war some time, if 
it would not be a dangerous war.” But he saw 
that that did not satisfy his mother, and, thereafter, 
he was more guarded in the expression of his am- 
bition. 

“If I was a great man,” he said one day, 
“you wouldn’t mind if I went to war, would you ? — 
if I was great like General Grant and General Sher- 
man and Major Bowman?” 

“Well, if you were needed, possibly I should n’t,” 
said she. 

“If I was n’t great, and were needed you 
wouldn’t mind, would you?” The only answer 
was a kiss. 

She read two or three chapters daily, until 
she had finished, and then said : “I ’m almost sorry 
it is done, are n’t you ?” 

“Yes,” said he, “it’s so good,” with a decided 
emphasis on the word “so.” 

To most of this story Constance was an inter- 
ested listener. Yet the scenes of carnage were hor- 


Her Subjects 


87 


rifying to her. But she would sit and look at her 
mother with intensest gaze, as though upon the 
gory field itself. The fate of Stonewall Jackson 
grieved her greatly. 

“I wish Jesus would tell us right in our hearts 
where Stonewall Jackson went when he died,” she 
said. 

After reading that terrific portrayal of the bat- 
tle of Gettysburg, Mrs. Livingstone said, “Isn’t 
that grand ?” 

“Yes,” said Constance, with much emotion, “but 
I feel sorry for the rebels.” 

Caryl was developing a spirit of mischief, and 
he liked to practice on Constance. Occasionally 
he would strike up: 

“ ‘Yes, we ’ll rally ’round the flag, boys.’ ” 

“O, don’t! I shall dream of war,” she would 
cry. 

Then, in thunderous tones, he would begin: 
“Guns, cannon, soldiers, battles, Stonewall Jackson, 
General Lee!” 

“Don’t, don’t!” she would implore. But pres- 
ently, remembering his weak point, she would brighten 
and hurl this terrifying array at him: “Rats, mice, 
snakes, lizards, toads !” Then he would subside ; 
for he was in mortal dread of rats. It was only 
necessary to mention the word, and he would curl 
his feet up in his mother’s lap. Cats, also, some- 
times struck terror to his heart. One afternoon 


88 


Her Realm 


he ran in declaring that he had seen a “wildcat” 
behind the barn. “It was a plaid cat,” he said. 

Once when he had been unusually exasperating, 
Constance struck him, and was required to apolo- 
gize. She did it in a half-hearted way. He de- 
clared: “She did n’t apojolize me right, and I won’t 
forgive her.” 

Though by no means a saint, he was, in some 
respects, rather more religious than Constance. 
For example, “Pilgrim’s Progress” was his delight. 
She used to hide the book to prevent its being read. 
One Sunday, he sat in church beside his mother, 
just before the administering of the sacrament. 
“I ’m going to kneel with you, to-day,” he whis- 
pered. 

“If you love Jesus,” said Mrs. Livingstone, “and 
think about him when you take the bread and wine, 
it will be all right.” 

So he kneeled at one side of her, while Con- 
stance was at the other. It made a favorable im- 
pression upon him. A few nights afterward, hav- 
ing tucked him in bed, Mrs. Livingstone thanked 
God for the little boy that was trying to be good. 

“I do try,” said he, after the prayer. “I have 
to try, since I took the bread and wine.” Pres- 
ently he added: “We don’t have to be good, but 
we have to try to be good.” 

“Highland Mary” proved to be the handsome 
one of the girls, and, with her aristocratic airs, was 


Her Subjects 


89 


quite captivating at times. The deep roses in her 
cheeks, and the luster of her soft brown hair, were 
occasion of some envy on the part of Constance, 
whose cheeks were too pale, and hair somewhat 
sandy. Mary’s tastes were exquisite ; and she 
would sometimes toss her head in high scorn for 
what she thought her sister’s lack of good breed- 
ing. And Constance would answer: 

“O, I do wish you would be a trifle less punc- 
tiliously proper. There is no danger of your ever 
turning ‘the world upside-down.’ ” 

One evening, all were sitting about the fire, lis- 
tening to a story from Norman. A slight roughness 
in his voice led Constance to remark that he needed 
to put lard in his throat. 

“Well,” said he, “if I need lard in my throat, 
you need a whole hogshead of it in yours.” 

“O,” said she, “there is n’t lard in a hog’s head, 
it ’s in its body.” 

Everybody laughed immoderately. When they 
had quieted somewhat, Norman tried to explain 
to her what a hogshead is. 

But she insisted, “A hog’s head is the head of 
a white pig/’ While all broke into another fit of 
laughter, Lilian kissed her sister ; for she had great 
consideration for the feelings of others, and was 
never, in her life, known to trample on them. She 
had quick sympathy, and it was to her, more than to 
any one else, that the little ones went with bumped 


90 


Her Realm 


heads and cut fingers. A supply of absorbent cot- 
ton and witch-hazel was always at hand, and she 
became a skillful home surgeon. 

To keep this household, with its varied tastes 
and inclinations, all in tune, required a power worth 
having; and Mrs. Livingstone had that power. 
When asked how she secured it, she simply replied : 

“It grew upon me. I can not tell how to get 
it, but only feel I have it.” 

She was not a general like some mothers, able 
to command her own home and run an orphan asy- 
lum besides; nor like Susannah Wesley, able to 
prevent her children from crying aloud after the 
age of six months. Mrs. Livingstone’s children, 
even at the mature age of six years, actually cried 
at times so as to be heard. And now and then, to 
their shame be it said, they really answered their 
mother in a way to make the Puritan matrons hold 
up their hands in horror. In fact, a neighbor once 
reported that Constance, then only six years old, 
said, “I won’t !” when asked to amuse Caryl. 

So that Mrs. Livingstone, in her undertaking, 
realized that she had no gifts above the ordinary 
in herself; nor virtues above the ordinary in her 
children. Her power lay in using ordinary gifts 
with extraordinary faithfulness. She laid great 
weight upon their last hour before bedtime. It 
was spent in the children’s room, by the fire in 
winter, and by the open window in summer. There 






THE LAST HOUR BEFORE BEDTIME 


Her Subjects 


91 


she read those books that every boy and girl ought 
to hear — books that open out to their wondering 
minds the mysterious and sacred beginnings of life. 
But before reading of the books came the story 
from the mother’s own lips, with a wild flower in 
her hand to illustrate the plant baby. The first eager 
questionings were promptly and cautiously an- 
swered, before some unhallowed tongue had 
told the story wrong. She knew that for lack 
of knowledge many a boy and girl were ruined. 
So they were made to know themselves, and to feel 
the desolation wrought by evil habits. She told 
them the facts in their tender years, when innocence 
could look her in the face without timidity, and 
before they felt within themselves the presence of 
those hidden powers that were to work their over- 
throw or deliverance. The result was that, in after 
years, one said of her boys, “They are the cleanest 
set of men I ever knew.” Not a coarse joke nor a 
questionable word fell from their lips. But it did 
not come by accident. They had no better hearts 
than other boys. It was the patient seed-sowing 
that did it. The weeds had not much chance. 

It was in that wonderful room, also, that she 
read the Book of books, from Genesis to Revelation. 
It was a surprise, even to her, to find that those so 
young should manifest steadfast interest in such 
treatises as Leviticus and Deuteronomy. But she 
found her opportunities. When Constance said she 


92 


Her Realm 


thought “God was awfully strict,” she was led to 
understand that sin was something fearful, and 
must be punished. It was worth reading pages of 
sacrificial requirements, with their promise of atone- 
ment, to hear Caryl say, “He always had a way to 
forgive them, did n’t he ?” 

Sometimes they would kneel by the open win- 
dow. Then it was sweet to hear their soft voices, 
and see the still moonlight upon their heads, and 
think that God was looking down. 

There was not much eclat surrounding this 
mother in those quiet years at Maple Grove. In- 
deed, she seemed to Mrs. Thornton to be putting 
in a good deal of time in humble service that would 
better be performed by some one else. But she was 
sublimely indifferent to the judgment of others. 
She knew what she was doing. She was making 
men and women. And patiently, day by day, she 
sowed the seeds that, twenty years afterward, were 
to spring up into a glorious harvest. 


CHAPTER VII 


KEEPING FAITH WITH THE BOY 

It was interesting to note the confidence be- 
tween Mrs. Livingstone and her boys. She was a 
particular chum with each of them. Not but that 
she held the closest relation between Herself and 
daughters. But somehow her strength was with 
her sons. Perhaps she saw how easily they could 
be lured into pitfalls. As for the notion that a 
young man must sow his “wild oats,” she had no 
patience with it. Mrs. Thornton had sometimes 
tried to hide behind that specious belief in contem- 
plating the waywardness of Horace. But Mrs. 
Livingstone was fully convinced that the harvest 
would b_e his sowing. Hence her determination to 
keep faith with her boys. In doing this she oc- 
casionally stood between them and reproof. Their 
foibles were not as easily overlooked by Mr. Liv- 
ingstone, who now and then would forget how it 
used to be when he was a boy. He was not severe, 
but sometimes failed to sympathize with them in 
their mistakes. 

Once, when Lawrence was old enough to know 
better, he took the wheelbarrow into the cellar. 

93 


94 


Her Realm 


It was great fun, until he accidentally bumped 
against a jug of vinegar, overturning it on the floor. 

“Please do n’t tell father,” he said, under his 
breath. 

“Well, this may be your secret and mine,” she 
said, simply ; and a pail of water and a cloth soon 
removed the last sign of the accident. It served as 
well as a sharp rebuke. That wheelbarrow never 
again entered the cellar. 

Lawrence became a great comfort to his mother. 
He would yield almost anything for the sake of 
peace, yet he was a positive young Christian. When 
it came to planning for a good time he always chose 
the last place. There were in him the qualities of 
which heroes are made. But it is doubtful if this 
fact was fully appreciated by any of the children 
except Lilian. She often gave vent to a bit of 
righteous indignation because of his sacrifices for 
the other boys, forgetting that the same observa- 
tion might be made with regard to her. 

Leroy was always getting into trouble. He was 
once walking backward in the barn, and sat down 
in a pail of milk. This was wholly inexcusable ; 
but he wanted no mention made of it, and his wish 
was granted. 

Seldom Norman required any assistance of the 
kind. For the most part he kept himself out of 
difficulties. Once, however, he built a fire under 
the woodhouse stairs. His father smelled the smoke. 


Keeping Faith with the Boy 95 

Nothing more need be said than that Norman never 
repeated that experiment. 

With her peculiar fitness in the management of 
the boys, it was natural that Mrs. Livingstone 
should have gladly welcomed Caryl as the baby of 
the family. Though, as it proved, he clung rather 
tenaciously to his babyhood, and raised some ques- 
tions in the minds of his brothers and sisters as to 
whether he ever would become a man. 

He was very much opposed to going to school; 
so he was allowed to take his own time, it being a 
half-formed belief with Mrs. Livingstone that chil- 
dren would better be a little slow in taking up the 
routine work of the classroom. After he was six 
years old, however, he was obliged to spend an 
hour each morning under his mother’s direction. 
And in a few months he was able to do his own 
reading. This home instruction, while it probably 
had disadvantages, also had strong points. Those 
were weeks of great delight both to mother and 
son. A favorite pastime of his was writing stories 
— such as, “The Fairy Ring,” “The Fish,” “The 
Queen,” and once — after an outing on the banks 
of a beautiful stream, this amateur writer of seven 
years ventured on a poem to his mother: 

“ I love you, mamma, 

All day and night, 

Where the streams are flowing 
And the sun is bright. 


96 


Her Realm 


I love you, mamma, 

By the brooklet side, 

Where the boats are sailing, 

By the soft, smooth tide. ” 

His people felt themselves about to reach promi- 
nence through their poet son. But it was several 
years before anything else of the kind ever came 
from his pen. It was one of those touches of heart 
or mind sometimes vouchsafed to childhood. 

When, at the age of seven and a half years, he 
suddenly determined to go to school, it cast a shadow 
over the home; for he was the only child in it 
during the day, the others being beyond the accom- 
modations of the district course. His going seemed 
a prophecy of the time when all the birds would 
have flown from the nest. One morning he set 
out, with book and slate, his mother accompanying 
him, along the country road, over the bridge, to 
the little red schoolhouse half a mile north. Miss 
Graham offered him a seat with the other children, 
and he was delighted. 

After that, each morning, he walked to the school 
alone. But his leave-taking was of the most elab- 
orate order. He would give the usual good-bye 
kiss, but, instead of whisking away as in most cases, 
he would walk backward along the drive, smiling 
and waving adieu as he went. Then he would 
dodge behind each maple, and spring out again 
with another smile and a bow. When beyond the 


Keeping Faith with the Boy 


97 


trees, he would go slowly down the hill, looking back 
over his shoulder occasionally. Mrs. Livingstone, 
not to disappoint him, would leave the side porch 
for a more direct view from the parlor door. She 
did not want him to look back and fail to find her, 
nor did he want her to expect one more smile and 
not get it. So he bestowed the smiles and bows 
till reaching the highway and turning north. Then 
the stone fence and the hill would hide him, and 
she would think he was gone. But, presently, when 
about to turn away, she would see a little straw 
hat suddenly showing above the fence, then Caryl 
himself standing upon the top of the wall. With 
a final wave of the hand and a heroic bow, he would 
leap down, thus ending his farewell; while he left 
in his mother’s thoughts, to gladden the hours till 
noon, the picture of a smiling face. 

But there was reason to fear that such a boy 
would have difficulty in exercising tact upon the 
playground. Hence his career was watched with 
considerable interest. At the end of a few weeks 
an incident occurred, throwing light upon the case. 
While eating his noonday meal, he said to his 
mother: “There is somebody in school that I dis- 
like more than any one else.” 

“Is it Susie Brown?” said Mrs. Livingstone. 

“No,” replied Caryl. “It is n’t a girl. It ’s a 
boy. It ’s George Gordon. James Hall gave me his 
place in the line above George, and George did n’t 
7 


98 


Her Realm 


like it, and said he ’d smash my face for me after 
school.” 

Mr. Livingstone felt disposed to see the boy 
at once. But Caryl would not hear to that, for he 
would have more reason than before to fear this 
youthful antagonist. Mrs. Livingstone suggested 
that she speak to Miss Graham about it. 

“No, she ’d tell George, and he ’d be worse than 
ever.” 

“Well, suppose I visit the school this afternoon, 
as though nothing had happened, and walk home 
with you.” 

“All right, but please do n’t tell Miss Graham.” 

“I think I can arrange it,” said his mother; 
“but first, tell me what you can say good about the 
boy?” 

“He can draw better than any other one in 
school.” 

“Anything else?” 

“Yes, he reads well, and has a voice like a girl’s.” 

“That will do,” said Mrs. Livingstone. “I shall 
be there.” 

She was expecting guests that evening, and 
had an unusual amount of work to prepare for them. 
But at half-past three she left a part of it unfinished, 
and in a few minutes looked in upon a room full 
of boys and girls, with needles and thread indus- 
triously outlining hats. They looked up smiling as 
she entered, for she was a frequent visitor. Being 


99 


Keeping Faith with the Boy 

seated she studied the school for a little, when she 
whispered to Miss Graham, “Which is George 
Gordon ?” There had been recent comers into the 
district, and several of the schoolchildren were 
strangers to Mrs. Livingstone. 

“That boy on the front seat,” said Miss Graham. 
“Bright-looking child, is he not?” 

“Yes, I should like to get acquainted with him.” 

Then Miss Graham showed one of his drawings, 
representing a woodpecker peeping from behind the 
trunk of a tree. It showed talent, and Mrs. Liv- 
ingstone expressed herself pleased. When the 
school was dismissed, George happened to remain 
in his seat, so she sat down beside him. 

“Is this George Gordon?” said she. “Well, I 
have heard Caryl tell so much about you that I 
wanted to know you. He says you can draw better 
than any one else in school, and that you read well. 
I expect you will be an artist, some day, and I am 
glad to meet you.” 

George, smiled, and certainly did not look much 
like “smashing” her boy’s face. She smiled, too, 
and after a few more words, said, “Good-bye,” and 
walked away. 

The next day, on his way home to dinner, up 
the slope, Caryl stopped to pick a bouquet of flow- 
ers. He was singing a song that his mother liked, 
and his sweet, clear voice was borne by the wind 
up to the open door where she sat sewing : 


L.oF 0. 


100 


Her Realm 


“ Come down in the meadow this morning in summer, 
And gather sweet blossoms that bloom by the way, 

And hear in the woodland the brown partridge drummer 
Beat up his brown soldiers to drill for the day. 

O, sing in the morning the song that I love, 

A song that is sweet as the lark’s above. ” 

He came on, filling the air with his melody, till he 
put the flowers in her hand. 

“I got a sweet thought from you,” she said. 

“Thank you,” he said in his pleasantest tone. 

At the dinner-table he incidentally mentioned 
George Gordon. Everybody listened: 

“Do you want to know what George did to-day ?” 
Mrs. Livingstone was ready for anything. “I was 
coming down the schoolhouse steps” (then she had 
visions of his being pushed violently to the ground), 
“and I saw George coming around the corner of 
the building. He came toward me, and said, ‘Did 
you tell your mother that I?’” (and Mrs. Living- 
stone almost held her breath) ; “ ‘did you tell your 
mother than I could draw better than any one else 
in school, and that I read well?’ Then he smiled. 
And that ’s what he did instead of fighting me,” 
said Caryl. 

A few days later he came home with this state- 
ment: “George Gordon says if any one jumps on 
me, he ’ll have to jump on him first.” 

One evening of early June, in the deepening 
twilight, Caryl sat upon a rustic seat on the side 


Keeping Faith with the Boy 101 

porch, waiting for his mother. He had been there 
for a quarter of an hour while she was giving di- 
rections to Mary and Constance concerning prep- 
arations for the next morning’s breakfast. Every 
two minutes he would call out, “Are you nearly 
ready ?” When she came, he made a place for her, 
and said, “Let ’s talk.” Half a dozen kittens were 
tumbling over one another in the grass, chasing 
down the drive, and climbing the maples, or try- 
ing to stir up a senseless toad to join in their 
frolic. Caryl held one of the kittens in his arms. 
There had been so much rain of late that the valley 
seem'ed a fruitful garden. 

“This is like fairyland,” Mrs. Livingstone sug- 
gested. 

“No,” he insisted, “it is too big. The trees are 
only a foot high, and the people an inch high in 
fairyland. This can’t be fairyland. I wish there 
were fairies, though. Why did n’t God make 
them?” 

“Perhaps he wanted us to have something to 
imagine.” 

“But if there were real fairies,” continued Caryl, 
“we could imagine something else.” 

“Possibly, then, we should want that something 
else to be real.” 

“I should n’t. But I do wish there was just one 
fairy, and that she would give each of us a wand, 
and that when we waved the wand we could have 


102 


Her Realm 


whatever we wanted. Then I should want to be 
rich, and I should wish the boys might plant corn 
without tar, and that the crows wouldn’t get it; 
and,” he added, after a pause, “if I should want to 
dress I ’d be dressed.” In dressing quickly he did 
not excel, his many futile races with Constance 
being witness to the fact. 

It sometimes seemed as though the characteris- 
tics of the two should have been reversed. The 
aggressive independence of Constance would have 
better graced a boy. Yet her older brothers 
would have missed half the spice of their rural ex- 
istence if it had not been for her ready response. 
Possibly at times she exceeded propriety, but Le- 
roy’s remarks often provoked heroic reply. One 
night she swung lazily in the hammock, singing a 
familiar melody. As a ten-year-old maiden she 
was taking life easy, and did not care to be dis- 
turbed. Any interruption of her song she thought 
uncalled for. So when Leroy came swaggering 
down the drive, he was ignored, “I ’ll pay her for 
this high-minded indifference,” he thought. Stroll- 
ing on, until he was a little distance past, and sud- 
denly wheeling about, he exclaimed, with an air of 
intelligence : 

“O Constance, did you know there ’s to be a 
total eclipse of the moon to-night ?” 

“Is there ?” said she, springing out of the ham- 


Keeping Faith with the Boy 103 


mock, and eagerly scanning the eastern horizon, al- 
ready brightening with lunar beams. 

“O, I don’t know. I only asked for infor- 
mation.” 

Then he ran around the house, and she after 
him with a stick. 

Though Mrs. Livingston had been compelled 
to refrain from any form of public activity, she 
proposed that her children should have *the benefit 
of her privation. Consequently various organiza- 
tions flourished under her management. Friday 
evenings were set apart for the different family 
gatherings. There was a missionary association 
trained beyond anything known in ordinary cases. 
The temperance society would suit the most exact- 
ing. A general literature association for entertain- 
ment, and a natural history society for observation, 
filled out the list. Such descriptions of natural ob- 
jects as came before that body for discussion were 
of the largest variety. Anything Was allowable, 
from a tomato-worm to the North Star. Le- 
roy had a startling array of toads, lizards, frogs, 
butterflies, and ants. It soon became evident that 
a museum would be necessary. Here Mary had 
scores of varieties of mounted flowers and ferns, 
and Constance every kind of stone to be found on 
the farm. She seldom went out but that she came 
in with her apron full. Many of them had not 


104 


Her Realm 


much geological meaning, but they sharpened her 
observation, and cultivated a tendency that was of 
later use. 

Mrs. Livingstone had begun to write separate 
biographies of her children, and continued them 
until Norman and Lilian came. Then their ex- 
periences were so much in common that a single 
record was made. Each child had a savings-bank 
account, carefully kept by Mrs. Livingstone during 
the first ten years, when it was turned over to the 
young depositor. The thrift thus developed proved 
of untold advantage. 

A strange experience came to her in those early 
days. She had gone to the village to do some win- 
ter trading. It was in November, one of those 
dreary, drizzly days, when one is inclined to feel 
very much like the weather. She had been unex- 
pectedly detained in the store till early twilight. 

^When she came out, everything was comparatively 
quiet, except the sepulchral “Chug, chug, chug,” 
from the awful throat of the brewery. Nothing 
else was so prominently visible as that long, black 
tongue of smoke lapping the misty November air. 
She usually shuddered at the ghastly sight and 
sound. But to-night she was seized with horror. 
A strange and terrible illusion possessed her. Some 
minutes after turning from the main street up the 
valley, and when beyond the sound of that ominous 
noise, the falling of the horse’s hoofs upon the 


Keeping Faith with the Boy 105 


highway seemed but the chilling echo of that fear- 
ful sound. The gloomy shadows about her sug- 
gested that fateful tongue of smoke, curling and 
twisting and writhing like a serpent. Then, in the 
steadily darkening twilight, keeping pace with her 
carriage, there seemed to follow a grim procession 
of poor battered humanity. There were hundreds 
of thousands of young men tumbling and plunging 
toward the abyss. There also stalked the wasted 
forms of women chained to tottering husbands. Some 
were leading little children by the hand. Young 
women, who should have been “polished after the 
similitude of a palace,” were rushing headlong, 
beauty and virtue gone, the demon in their souls. 
And once she caught the dim outline of a face, like 
one of the Thorntons. 

“What!” she gasped, “Horace? His poor 
mother!” And she thought another walked beside 
him, but she could not discern who. She was held 
by this illusion until her horse turned through the 
gate at Maple Grove, and she was impressed with 
the thought that, in a world where the serpent coils, 
a mother must be heroically vigilant. 

So, after that, upon seeing Horace, she seemed 
also to see that procession of men and women. 
Then she determined to communicate her fears to 
Mrs. Thornton. But that woman, while she thanked 
her friend, at the same time laughed at the possi- 
bility of such a result. She did not question the 


106 


Her Realm 


waywardness of Horace. But years would steady 
him. As for Margaret, that other face beside his 
could not by any possibility be hers. She was one 
of those naturally perfect children, whose going 
astray was the farthest from anybody’s thought. 
Whatever might come to Horace because of his 
seductive associations, Margaret was safe. Let 
others be concerned for the lapping of that black 
tongue, Mrs. Thornton had no occasion for alarm. 
So her friend felt constrained to keep silent on that 
point, and let time reveal the truth. 

As for herself, Mrs. Livingstone would never 
allow ordinary engagements to stand between her 
and her children. She could not always accept even 
the simple social invitations of the neighborhood, 
though she was not indifferent to them; and many 
times had made appointments that she might give 
sympathy and counsel to some young mother, or 
encouragement to a boy or girl. 

The Tioughnioga Valley was conceded to be of 
surpassing loveliness. And the naturally quiet vil- 
lage upon its river bank should have been a place 
of security. Formerly it had the reputation of being 
a community of unusual piety. But of late people 
were saying, “It is a hard place for boys.” A casual 
observer would scarcely have thought it. There 
was an aristocratic air about the town, in its broad 
and densely-shaded streets, in its extensive yards and 
large dwellings, and in its well-dressed people, in- 


Keeping Faith with the Boy 107 


dicative of something too high to stoop to the 
groveling influences of less classic surroundings. 
But just across the river, near the foot of a long 
hill, stood that institution, belching forth its horrid 
smoke and sounds. And it could not be that, during 
all the years, it should waken the quiet village with- 
out leaving a blight somewhere. Mrs. Livingstone 
realized this, and held scrupulous guard over her 
household. 


CHAPTER VIII 


“TRAINED FOR THE HIGHEST" 

It was a great day in the Livingstone home when 
the first trip was made from Maple Grove to the 
village academy. Norman had the old family horse 
waiting at the side porch for Lawrence and Char- 
lotte a full half hour before it was time to start. 
Everybody was excited. All were called upon to 
contribute to the outgoing of these two aspirants 
to knowledge. The wheels of progress on the but- 
ter farm actually slackened speed a little in defer- 
ence to their departure. Even the engine in the 
milkhouse was fifteen minutes late in getting up 
steam — an occurrence almost unheard of. Finally 
Norman handed the reins to Lawrence, crying: 
“All aboard ! Train going south !” The buggy had 
scarcely gone twice its own length, when “Wait a 
minute, wait a minute !” came breathlessly from 
the throats of the two little girls, who, with Caryl 
trudging between them, had come out of the pasture 
with a bunch of golden-rod; and Lawrence leaped 
to the ground to give them a kiss, an act he never 
missed. Charlotte stooped to take the flowers. This 
108 


“Trained for the Highest” 


109 


interruption proved an advantage; for just then 
Lilian came out with the dinner-basket, which acci- 
dentally had been left in the pantry. 

“Ot* said Norman, “I was hoping you would 
forget that. Folks that work ought to do the 
eating.” 

Then taking it from Lilian, he suddenly lowered 
it to the ground, as though its weight were fabulous. 
“Whew!” said he, drying the perspiration from his 
face, “somebody help me lift this bushel basket.” 

All gathered about him, and, with much tugging 
and grunting, managed to get it under the buggy 
seat. Then they were off again. 

“Hold on !” cried Leroy, in terror ; “something ’s 
the matter.” 

“Whoa, Caesar!” with a sudden hauling up of 
the lines. 

“Your shadow is after you.” 

“Get up !” said Lawrence ; and they moved away 
amid uproarious laughter, the waving of sunbon- 
nets, tossing of caps, and general wishes of success 
and long life. 

They had just turned from the driveway into the 
road, when Norman called out, “I hope your Latin 
grammar will help you to milk old Brindle with 
a steadier hand to-night.” 

When the others had subsided,. Lawrence and 
Charlotte looked back to see their mother with 
radiant face under the butternut-tree, waving them 


110 


Her Realm 


adieu. And, looking back in years to come, they 
always seemed to see her standing there. But when 
they drove away from under the maples that Sep- 
tember morning, though they did not know it, they 
were turning the page of childhood. They saw it 
in after years; and the memory of those early days 
was full of the fragrance of flowers, the songs of 
birds and the multitudinous leaves of the forest; 
and over all the love of a woman that never failed, 
a love so abiding that to it their hearts had safely 
clung. She knew the importance of a steadfast 
support for the twining of those tender plants. She 
knew, too, that the continual tearing of the shoots 
away would stultify their growth, and that the bond 
of sympathy between mother and child must not 
be broken. So, coming and going, they always 
found her there, the first to greet them, the last to 
say good-bye. What that constancy meant to them, 
and how it saved them on the edge of many a preci- 
pice from going over, they understood long after- 
ward. And they never ceased to wonder at the 
amazing steadfastness of her affections. 

The return of Lawrence and Charlotte each 
night from the village was an interesting occasion. 
Mother awaited them at the stile. Norman, Lilian, 
Leroy, and Mary usually came in, after their walk 
from the district school, a little ahead of them, and 
stood waiting for the dinner-basket, hoping to 
find a generous slice or two of bread and butter, 


“ Trained for the Highest” 


111 


to divide among themselves, while Constance and 
Caryl were ready for a ride to the barn. 

Sometimes, when all of them were gathered about 
the study table, which stood of an evening with 
leaves spread in the family sitting-room, Lawrence, 
lifting his arms upward, would say, with mock- 
serious air, “Who knows upon what greatness these 
walls are looking down ?” Then he would bend his 
energies to Virgil’s “ZEneid” or Homer’s “Iliad.” 
More than once, from among the stanchions at night 
would be heard something about “The wrath of 
Achilles.” Charlotte, passing by on the outside, 
would answer, “The will of Zeus was accom- 
plished.” Or, at another time, echoing over the 
cornfields would come this bit of Hellenic lore: 
“The twang of his silver bow was terrible;” until 
the ancient poet might have thought his fame ap- 
propriately perpetuated in the name of the village 
that slept in the valley. O, those wistful academy 
days ! They passed all too quickly, leaving Norman 
and Lilian to sustain the honors of the Livingstone 
household ; a task by no means easy, for the stand- 
ard had been set high. 

The few weeks before graduation, however, were 
a time of eager anticipation at Maple Grove. The 
new dress for Charlotte and the suit for Lawrence, 
the essay and the oration, were considered of great 
importance, and became topics of general discus- 
sion. Other less weighty matters — such as the 


112 


Her Realm 


increase of the dairy product and the improvement 
of the farmland — were temporarily dropped. Each 
evening at supper there was a request to report 
progress. Then everybody listened attentively to 
these prospective graduates, offering suggestions as 
occasion demanded. It seemed to Norman that 
Charlotte was putting an unreasonable amount of 
time on her valedictory. She used to hide away 
every Saturday afternoon, and not show herself 
again till night. 

During those days she had arranged herself a 
“den” under the roof, in the room over the kitchen. 
It suited her exactly, though possibly it would not 
suit every one. It was utterly devoid of modern ex- 
travagances in decoration. A brick chimney passed 
through the center. Trunks and boxes, never 
opened except at house-cleaning time, and kept only 
for that purpose, adorned the floor. Clothing, 
brooms, baskets, and bags hung from the rafters. 
Fruit- jars, syrup-cans, and honey-boxes covered the 
shelves; while clustering about the north window, 
looking out toward the milkhouse and the wooded 
hills beyond, was her outfit, consisting of chairs, an 
improvised desk, books, papers, pen and ink. Here 
she spent hours writing. Those were wonderful 
days up under that roof. The patter of the rain 
on the shingles, and the twittering of the birds in 
the evening twilight, were an inspiration. Occa- 
sionally, however, her flights of imagination are 


“Trained for the Highest” 


113 


suddenly interrupted. A sound from below reaches 
her ears. It is Norman passing under the window. 
Swinging his arm with heroic gesture over his head, 
he rings out: 

‘“Write her deed high on the escutcheon of fame! 

She deserves such a record — make place for her name ! ’ ” 

Then thrusting her head outside, she implores: 

“O stop, or you will quench the fires of genius.” 

“I would be sorry to do that/' says he. '‘The 
world can’t afford to miss the products of your pen.” 

“Well, do let me alone, then, if you want my 
name on that ‘escutcheon.’ ” 

“Adieu, adieu,” and, with a profound bow, he 
withdraws; while Charlotte settles back in her den. 

Through all vicissitudes, however, she and Law- 
rence completed their tasks, and were graduated 
with honors from that historic institution. 

Afterward there came a day that, for power to 
awaken tender memories, far surpassed even the 
time of their first ride to the academy. Though it 
had its joys and demonstration, it was a solemn oc- 
casion. There was a tinge of autumn on the leaves 
that morning, and a touch of pathos in the father’s 
prayer. Mother had risen early to pack the trunks. 
Such a wonderful mother! She never forgot any- 
thing, from a hair-ribbon to a dress waist. During 
the following years she often packed those trunks, 
and one day just before the train pulled off, she said : 
“There, I left out the pin ball! That is the first 
8 


114 


Her Realm 


time I ever did the like.” How she managed to 
keep in mind the wants of eight children, and never 
miss so much as a necktie, was a mystery. 

But returning to the day in question, Lawrence 
and Charlotte were going to college. When one 
of the neighbors had expressed his disapproval of 
spending so much money in the education of farm- 
ers' children, Mrs. Livingstone replied : “They 
might not remain in the country, and they would 
need all they could get successfully to compete with 
conditions in the city. Or, if they should come back 
to the farm, they would need it the more, to atone 
for the comparative seclusion in which they would 
live.” 

“But,” said the farmer, “it is nonsense to put 
so much into your daughter’s head.” 

Mrs. Livingstone answered quietly: “A liberal 
education for a girl is a gold-mine within herself. 
Having that, she will be less likely to seek enter- 
tainment in questionable ways. Though I have 
been unable to make the same use of my early train- 
ing as others might have done, I would not be with- 
out its influence upon my life.” 

The farmer, knowing the woman to whom he 
spoke, had nothing more to say. As a matter of 
course, Lawrence and Charlotte were prepared for 
college. But it was not altogether easy to see the 
train leave the station, carrying them for the first 
time out into that world that was to test character. 


“Trained for the Highest” 


115 


But Mrs. Livingstone was not afraid. She be- 
lieved in her children. And though she knew that 
some of the associations awaiting them would be 
wild and fascinating, yet there were the years at 
Maple Grove from which they could never get away. 
In their letters afterward they plainly indicated how 
the power of that early influence held them; for 
when the days were full of lights and shadows, or 
when the hills were aflame with gorgeous color, 
and the sunset was glorious, they knew how it was 
at Maple Grove, and wished themselves there ; and 
when the wind whistled about their quarters and 
made the windows rattle, it thrilled them, for they 
thought of home. When the trees were bending and 
twisting under the blasts of winter, or the snow fell 
and blocked the entrance to the campus, they re- 
membered the great drifts through which they used 
to tunnel on the hill west of the red schoolhouse. 
In all these memories there was the thought of the 
group about the lamplight, and the one ever-con- 
stant face. And she had faith in them. 


CHAPTER IX 


A DESERTED THRONE 

It is now two years since that morning when the 
train rolled out of the village, taking Lawrence and 
Charlotte for the first time away to college. The 
autumn winds begin to blow. The haze upon the 
hills gives one the impression of something finished. 
This time four have gone on the morning train; 
for Norman and Lilian are in the company. To 
induce Lilian to go has required all the art of per- 
suasion of the whole family. She felt more than 
did the rest what it would mean to their mother to 
see the flight of so many at once. 

“Lilian is a saint, if there ever was one,” said 
Charlotte. 

“Yes, she is too much of a saint for her own 
good,” added Norman, who recalled the numberless 
times that she had washed the dishes because Mary 
and Constance would rather pick wild flowers in the 
woods, and the occasional baking of a cake that 
Charlotte might go riding. 

So, though it meant much to Mrs. Livingstone, 
she felt relieved when Lilian was finally prevailed 
116 


A Deserted Throne 


117 


upon to go with the others. As they drove into the 
village that morning, they were hailed by Mrs 
Thornton, who wished Mrs. Livingtone to call, 
on the way from the train, as she wanted to talk 
with her. It was a very happy group of young 
people that waved good-bye to their mother on the 
platform, and a somewhat lonely but grateful wo- 
man that walked away from the station back into 
the heart of the village. But she had not been long 
in Mrs. Thornton's parlor before every shade of 
loneliness vanished, as she thought of her four chil- 
dren at home, in contrast with Margaret and Horace. 
There was a severing of the bond between mother 
and child distressing to see. The bloom of inno- 
cence upon Margaret’s face was not as fresh as it 
once was, though not every one would have noticed 
the change. A hard look was in the eyes of Horace, 
as he came up the Walk puffing a cigarette. Along- 
side these two she could not help placing her Leroy 
and Mary. So while she contemplated Mrs. Thorn- 
ton’s enviable social position in contrast with her 
own secluded life, she was not ashamed of the dif- 
ference. In the eyes of others, however, it was 
very marked. Since schooldays, she herself had 
dropped out of sight, though she had by no means 
been idle in the pursuit of knowledge. Mrs. Thorn- 
ton’s influence, on the other hand, had been con- 
stantly growing until she had presided at important 
gatherings in the city, and, as was anticipated, she 


Her Realm 


1 18 

was even mentioned as a candidate for the presi- 
dency of the State Federation. She certainly had 
a reputation above the ordinary. Her college so- 
rority was proud to call her one of “our girls,” and 
Alma Mater was honored by her name. Mrs. Liv- 
ingstone saw all this, and felt that she herself could 
possibly have so excelled; but she would have had 
to desert her throne. Though not always easy to 
be contented, Mrs. Livingstone was now more than 
ever satisfied with her choice. 

“I fear I made a mistake with Margaret the other 
day,” said Mrs. Thornton. 

“How so?” 

“I let her go to the city last Sunday to hear 

Dr. Smithfield. She was captivated by his style. 

He soothed her by the music of his voice. And 

when he talked of the ‘ideal splendor of a winter 

sun/ and of the ‘skies sown with stars of every 

degree of exceeding magnitude — stars that panted 

and thrilled with glory/ she was ready to adopt his 

whole creed.” 

% 

“You must regret it,” said Mrs. Livingstone: 
“for she will need more than the support of ‘The 
Church of This World’ to carry her through.” 
Then she thought of the hours upon hours that she 
herself had spent reading to her children, until their 
souls had been filled with the story of the Book. 
And having gotten her work in first, she had little 
to fear from any Dr. Smithfield. 


A Deserted Throne 


119 


Then Mrs. Thornton continued: “I have only 
noticed it of late; but I think Margaret is a little 
beyond me. Yet she used to be such an affectionate 
child. I never had any concern about her; Horace 
was the one that caused me trouble. She is not as 
choice of her company as she used to be. She was a 
perfect little lady and seemed to require no care, 
so I let her go about as she chose. When she first 
attended a parlor dance, I thought little of it, but 
she returned from the masquerade ball the other 
night, and is not the girl she once was. I had been 
to a meeting of the Board of Directors of the Home, 
and had not retired when she came. She did not 
care to talk with me about the way she had spent 
the evening, and went up-stairs without the kiss she 
used to be so ready to give. ,, 

“And,” thought Mrs. Livingstone, “you were 
not always here to take.” But she said nothing, and 
Mrs. Thornton continued: 

“I followed her up-stairs, and through her door 
heard the prayer: ‘Now I lay me down to sleep/ 
And I said, ‘Will the Lord hear her ?’ When all was 
still, I slipped into the room, and looking into her 
face said to myself, “If she should die before she 
wakes, will the Lord take her soul ?’ ” 

Mrs. Livingstone felt for Mrs. Thornton as only 
one mother can for another, and, having finished her 
call, went home. 

A few weeks later, when the woods were all 


120 


Her Realm 


aflame in the bright October sun, she left her own 
household for a day in charge of the “little girls,” 
as they had been familiarly called. But Mary and 
Constance were repudiating that title of late. 

As Mary once declared, “When we have to take 
the place of Charlotte and Lilian, certainly we are 
no longer ‘little/ ” 

“Ah, Miss Livingstone, I believe!” said Leroy, 
with much assumed solemnity. “Allow me — ” 

“No, we’ 11 not allow you !” interrupted Con- 
stance, vehemently. “If you call us ‘little’ again, 
you ’ll find out something !” 

And she laid down the law to him so forcibly 
that he seldom attempted afterwards, except at a safe 
distance, to employ the odious appellation. 

But occasionally he could not resist the tempta- 
tion, and, soon after breakfast, would pop his head 
out from the barn loft, and call : 

“O, say, little girls, is dinner ready?” 

Constance would shout back at him, “No!” and 
flourish her broomstick in a decidedly belligerent 
manner, saying, “Come down, if you dare.” 

“Ha, ha, you can’t hurt me, you little girl !” 

Then he would pitch into the hay, and tumble it 
down onto the floor below, while Constance went 
back to deliberate with Mary, over the dishpan, 
as to the best way to get even with him. 

Leroy was irrepressible. No one could well have 
indigestion with him at the table; for he kept them 


A Deserted Throne 


121 


in frequent uproar. When he spoke everybody ex- 
pected to laugh. His career in the academy was 
unique. As a student he was sustaining the Liv- 
ingstone reputation ; but he was doing more. He 
was tall and fine-looking, and carried himself like 
a prince. Many a mother, seeing him walk the 
streets, had said, “I should be proud to call him 
my son.” He and Mary were a picture as they rode 
behind their spirited black Cicero to and from the 
academy. The neighbors used often to watch them 
go by; and young people in Sunday-school some- 
times would gaze at them until chagrined by their 
own rudeness. 

That October day Mrs. Livingstone went to the 
city to see how her children at college fared. Such 
a rejoicing! She was taken to the campus, and 
shown through the new buildings ; she was introduced 
to the professors, the oldest of whom she had known 
in her own college days; she was also taken along 
the shaded avenues to admire the splendid homes 
and parks, and finally to the art gallery to see the 
marvelous paintings and statues. 

But nothing she saw or heard satisfied her more 
than the words of Professor Richards. 

‘‘Mrs. Livingstone,” he said, “do you remem- 
ber when I told you I thought you should become 
a public speaker?” 

“I do,” said she. 

“Well,” said he, “you could not have done a 


122 


Her Realm 


better work than this,” pointing to her sons and 
daughters. 

Then she thought of what her husband had said 
that winter night when they were all about her. 
Lilian's face was beaming, for she seemed in an un- 
usual way to feel what such a result had cost her 
mother. 

The next morning, when Lilian bade that pre- 
cious woman good-bye, she looked long and lov- 
ingly down the street, and turned to the others, say- 
ing : “We do not half appreciate our mother, I fear.” 
At night, when the sun was sinking gloriously be- 
hind the hill, she stood with her face toward it in 
silence. They left her undisturbed, for they knew 
her thoughts were of home. 

Mrs. Livingstone had stopped in the city during 
the day to trade, and had returned on the evening 
train to find Leroy, according to previous arrange- 
ment, awaiting her at the station. Then such a ride 
as they had out between the hills that stretched 
their dark forms up toward the starlight! 

But before she had boarded the train that night 
she had seen and heard what filled her with appre- 
hensions. She was standing by the gate, waiting 
for her ticket to be punched, when subdued voices 
reached her ear. Looking around, she saw a stout 
woman talking to a man with iron-gray hair. 
Never, to her latest breath, could she forget that 
woman’s face, nor would she like to have those eyes 


A Deserted Throne 


123 


fastened upon her daughter. She heard a little of 
the conversation, for she could not help it. 

“Some of the girls are very unruly,” the woman 
was saying to the man. “I held one of them down 
to the floor with my foot last night, and took a 
strap to her.” 

Then something was said about a change of 
rooms. But, Mrs. Livingstone’s ticket being 
punched, she was the first to take her place on the 
train. Presently this woman entered and took a 
seat across the aisle. She soon arose, however, 
and, approaching Mrs. Livingstone, said: 

“Are you to stay in the car?” 

“Yes,” was the cool reply. 

“Can I get you to watch my bundles? I want 
to buy some fruit.” 

A slight nod was the only answer. When she 
was gone, a uniformed young man — a messenger- 
boy, apparently — entered, accompanied by a sweet- 
faced young lady, for whom he was hunting a seat. 
The car was nearly empty, and yet he walked its 
whole length and back before he discovered the one 
for which he was looking. Then he placed her 
opposite Mrs. Livingstone beside those bundles, 
and disappeared. 

“So this young fellow is in the game, too, is he ? 
For shame!” This was Mrs. Livingstone’s mental 
comment, and she looked at the girl, hoping for an 
opportunity to speak with her. At once, however, 


124 


Her Realm 


upon the departure of the young man, the woman 
returned, and took her place as before. This cut 
off the possibility of Mrs. Livingstone’s interfer- 
ence. She listened, however, for she felt she should. 
Above the noise of the train she only caught stray 
words, but heard enough to judge that the girl had 
an errand in the village; and she conjectured that 
the woman, also, would stop there. She saw, too, 
that though they had apparently been strangers, the 
girl was completely won and wholly at the mercy 
of her new acquaintance. Once Mrs. Livingstone 
arose and walked down the aisle and back, in the 
vain attempt to get the girl’s attention. She rode 
in troubled silence to the end of her journey. What 
mattered it if her daughters were safe that night! 
Somebody’s daughter was in peril, and others would 
follow if this woman had her way. She did stop in 
the village. Mrs. Livingstone, with throbbing 
heart, saw the girl and her companion step into a 
closed carriage and drive away down a side street. 
And that is why she had such a ride with Leroy 
that night out between the hills. For she told him 
the whole story. He listened with surprise and 
alarm. This was her opportunity. He had always 
been inclined to think everybody genuine; and his 
mother had seen that there was his danger. 


CHAPTER X 


THE FIRE UPON THE ALTAR 

“O, it is heaven out under those trees !” said Mr. 
Livingstone one warm summer morning, as he stood 
in the shade by the side porch near the stile. “I 
used to think that I would like to go West. But 
there are too many sacred associations ever to in- 
duce me to leave this place.” And the wind moved 
among the branches as though responsive to his ap- 
preciation. In the driveway, not too far to the east 
nor to the west, was a spot where the lights and 
shadows were perfect. Here, when day was break- 
ing, with the tender green of the leaves above, the 
twittering of birds, and the distant view of the 
blue hills at the south, — here it was heaven, as near 
it as any place on earth could be. At least, there 
was not a dweller at Maple Grove but that thought 
it so. Once, when an uninitiated denizen of the 
city came and looked with calm coldness upon the 
scene, the Livingstones were disgusted. They for- 
got. Poor fellow ! He could not help being born 
in the city; and if he had no soul for the beauties 
of nature, it was not his fault. Then, too, they 
125 


126 


Her Realm 


were looking upon their native hills. And who, un- 
der such conditions, could speak or feel impartially ? 
But they never did understand how some folks could 
be so immovable. 

Often Charlotte used to walk up and down the 
drive, and say with eager longing: “Can anything 
in all the world be like this?” She certainly never 
found aught to compare with it. And none of them 
ever could forget the delicious coolness under the 
shade of those maples, nor the old house, with its 
low, square rooms, hung with paintings and filled 
with choice books and magazines and comfortable 
furniture. Though most of them afterward lived in 
more modern apartments, with aesthetic surround- 
ings; and some crossed seas and climbed majestic 
mountains, and from them beheld sunsets that were 
indeed far distant and were indescribably glorious, 
yet they never found a place where the “home feel- 
ing” was so unspeakably tender as in this house 
under the trees. 

Long afterward, however, in looking back upon 
the scenes of those early days, it was not so much 
the memory of the trees or the house that held them. 
One picture above all others hung bright and beauti- 
ful. It was that of the fire upon the altar. They 
did not remember to have seen it go out, nor even 
grow dim. But in all the years since their earliest 
knowledge it had glowed with such steady light 
as to guide their footsteps over many a treacherous 


The Fire upon the Altar 


127 


way. There was nothing gloomy or severe, noth- 
ing formal or compulsory, about it. But as regu- 
larly as the sun rose over the eastern hill did the 
family gather in the sitting-room after breakfast 
for a chapter from the Word, a hymn, and a prayer. 
So faithful was Mr. Livingstone in sustaining this 
custom, that he had been known to return, after an 
hour’s absence on account of refractory cattle, to 
take up the chapter where he left off. 

Each, from the oldest to the youngest, had a 
Bible and read in his turn. The Psalms and Prov- 
erbs they liked. The story of Him who walked in 
Nazareth, for its simplicity; the Acts of the Apos- 
tles, for the spirit of conquest; and the Apocalyptic 
vision of St. John, were their favorites. The mys- 
tery of the last held them. “The four and twenty 
elders and the four beasts,” “the dragon,” the “great 
white throne,” “the lake of fire,” the opening of the 
“books” and the judging of the dead “out of those 
things which were written in the books,” “the seven 
last plagues,” the “new heaven” and the “new earth,” 
“the holy city coming down from God,” and the 
“Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, 
and wisdom, and strength, and honor, and glory, 
and blessing,” — all this, from their early recollection, 
filled them with awe and wonder. 

Such singing as they had with Lilian at the or- 
gan! No one else could bring out the melody as 
she could. She put her whole soul into it. Floods 


128 


Her Realm 


of rich song, they rolled forth at that time, which 
often echoed and re-echoed through the house and 
in the field during all the hours of the day. The 
hymn of the morning was the one that lingered upon 
their lips, and broke out at frequent intervals in 
unexpected quarters. From Charlotte’s room up- 
stairs would come, 

‘“Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee; 

from mother’s room, 

“ ‘ E’en though it be a cross 
That raiseth me ; ’ ” 

above the throbbing of the engines in the milk- 
house, rising clear and beautiful, the father’s voice, 
— O, how they used to listen ; for he could sing, — 

“ ‘ Or if on joyful wing, 

Cleaving the sky, 

Sun, moon, and stars forgot, 

Upward I fly ; ’ ” 

and from the children in the meadow, the refrain, 

“‘Nearer my God to thee, 

Nearer to thee!’” 

At night when the shadows covered the hills 
and fell about the maples, not one beneath that 
roof but responded to the sentiments of the hymn. 

They seldom thought much about it at the time, 
but they would learn afterward that guests had gone 


The Fire upon the Altar 


129 


away greatly strengthened by those songs. One 
hymn, that was neither great nor old, but tender 
and beautiful under the touch of their harmonious 
voices, they often sang, as friends were about to 
leave : 

“When you start for the land of heavenly rest, 

Keep close to Jesus all the way; 

For he is the Guide, and he knows the way best, 
Keep close to Jesus all the way.” 

They seldom stopped with two stanzas, but sung 
the whole four, closing with, 

“ We shall reach our home in heaven by and by. ” 

“It was worth more than a sermon, just to hear 
that song,” said a young man to Mr. Livingstone 
in bidding farewell. Because of it, a light pene- 
trated the darkness that had fallen about him. 

Once a wanderer had staid over night at Maple 
Grove. The reading that morning was of the young 
man who “took his journey into a far country.” 
The song fitted the occasion : 

“ Come home ! come home ! 

You are weary at heart, 

For the way has been dark, 

And so lonely and wild : 

O prodigal child ! 

Come home; O, come home!” 

When they reached the refrain, the stranger 
rose and left the room; but they could hear him 

9 


130 


Her Realm 


sobbing outside. No one knew the desolate picture 
upon which he looked. And no one saw him walk 
back and stand under the window to hear the prayer 
in his behalf. But he heard it, and hearing, he said 
within himself : “ ‘I will arise and go to my father/ ” 

Those prayers it would have done any one good 
to hear. There was nothing in them about the 
“eternal decrees;” but Christ himself was there. 
And they seemed to look for him to walk with them 
during the day, to be their Friend, their Partner, 
their Burden-bearer, whether in the house or in 
the field. And it could easily be believed that an 
Unseen Presence hovered above each kneeling form. 
Then followed the Lord’s Prayer in concert. 

When Lawrence and Charlotte were grown, a 
different order was used. Mr. Livingstone, after 
having led the devotions one day, on the next would 
ask, “Mother, will you lead in prayer this morning ?” 
And she would pray. There was always something 
in her petition about “the terrible curse of intem- 
perance” and “our ministers, missionaries, and evan- 
gelists everywhere.” The next day it would be, 
“Lawrence, will you lead in prayer ?” And the next, 
“Charlotte will you?” And as soon as they were 
old enough, so on through the whole number, until 
ir came father’s turn again. Perhaps not even Mr. 
Livingstone himself realized in those days what he 
was doing. But his children did afterward. 

An unusual custom once crept in, at Constance’s 
suggestion. One morning, just before the prayer. 


The Fire upon the Altar 


131 


she said : “When we get through, let ’s shake hands ; 
that ’s the way they do at meeting/ 1 ’' And so, for a 
few weeks it was their wont every morning at the 
close of the usual devotions, to stand about the 
room, shaking hands and rolling out, 

“Jerusalem the golden, ” 
or, 

“ Children of the heavenly King, 

As we journey, let us sing. ” 

The exercise was not at all profound, and a little 
irregular, it must be confessed. But it interested 
the younger children, and for their sakes was en- 
couraged a while. In time it had served its pur- 
pose and was dropped. 

Much candor of opinion was allowed; so Con- 
stance would occasionally offer criticisms, if any- 
thing did not suit her ideas of propriety. At about 
the age of four her sense of fitness was often 
shocked. One morning she surprised her father 
by saying: 

“You did n’t pray for me.” 

“Yes,” said he, “I prayed for the family circle.” 

“I ’m not the "family circle !’ ” said she decid- 
edly. "‘Maybe Caryl is, but I ’m not.” 

After that there was something in the prayer 
about “our little Constance,” until she grew older. 

When Caryl came of age to appreciate the de- 
lights of outdoor life, he desired that the morning 
exercises be as much abbreviated as possible. He 


132 


Her Realm 


would sit very patiently during the reading of the 
lesson. In the singing of the hymn he always took 
an active part; but when it came to the prayer he 
would manage to slip quietly to the one who ,was 
to offer it, and just in the act of kneeling, would 
whisper, “Make it short!” Probably he was think- 
ing of his new kite or red wagon. It came so near 
upsetting Lawrence when the request was first made 
that he did “make it short,” and, in the concert 
prayer that followed, could scarcely refrain from 
laughing. But they soon got used to the little 
lad’s wish and occasionally accommodated him. 

The time at the altar was not wasted. It seemed 
as though all were gathering force for the long hours 
before dinner. They would rise from that place 
with a light heart and a bounding step, and fall 
to work with a determination that was good to see. 

A similar effect was sometimes produced upon 
their hired help. They once engaged an old man 
to paint the barn. The second morning something 
appeared to have made him young again, for he was 
laying the brush on with youthful vigor. They 
looked up at him. He was at the top of the ladder. 
Listen ! 

“ Sweet hour of prayer, sweet hour of prayer, ” 

And it seemed to them that the song must 
have been borne away to his “Father’s throne.” 

At night, when this same man saw the children 


The Fire Upon the Altar 


133 


gathered about the organ, he asked them to sing 
that hymn again. They sang; and it indeed called 
him “from a world of care.” Later in the evening, 
thinking the household absorbed in something else, 
he slowly walked across the room, and took his seat 
at the instrument. He had been a country singing- 
master in an earlier day. Such playing and sing- 
ing! His white locks fell upon his shoulders, and 
his clear tenor voice rose above the others until it 
seemed to reach heaven: 

“ ‘ Home, home ! sweet, sweet home ! 

Prepare me, dear Savior, for glory, my home. ’ ” 


CHAPTER XI 


BEHIND THE SCENES 

“It just makes me provoked!’' said Constance, 
coming in from the barn one morning. 

“Well?” said her mother. 

“I was talking with Leroy while he milked. I 
asked a thousand questions, more or less, about 
registering cattle; and Norman called out from 
the other end of the stanchion row that I would 
better rest my tongue, I was making the cows 
nervous.” 

“Never mind,” said her mother; “you may be 
thankful some day that you have a tongue; though 
Norman’s advice is not so bad. You will need to 
be careful not to be too talkative. It is well to keep 
some matters to one’s self.” 

Constance understood, and flew to the kitchen 
to help prepare the breakfast ; for two young ladies 
from the city were unexpectedly coming to dinner. 
Lawrence was asked to meet them at the train, then 
call for Mr. and Mrs. Long, and bring the four 
out to the farm. After Lawrence had gone, the 
girls were busy sweeping, dusting, washing win- 
134 


Behind the Scenes 


135 


dows, arranging bouquets in vases, and doing any 
amount of unnecessary cleaning. The boys also 
were working with unusual speed, that they might 
have time to change their clothes before the arrival 
of the guests. Norman, who had met the young 
ladies at the university, said he did not care to look 
like a “hayseed.” 

Constance was ready an hour before time. She 
was never known to be late, though it would scarcely 
do, on all occasions, to stand her up before Mary 
for inspection. The family carriage sometimes stood 
at the door waiting for Mary some minutes. But 
when she did appear, lo ! what a vision of loveliness ; 
Norman thought that Mary would be improved by 
a little of Constance's energy. 

Either the time that morning passed with un- 
accountable swiftness or Lawrence drove unusually 
fast. Charlotte had just brought towels and a basin 
of'water into the dining-room, preparatory to wash- 
ing the windows. Then she would dress. She had 
made the first application of the cloth to the glass, 
when Lilian ran in from the kitchen with the unex- 
pected announcement : “They are coming !” Char- 
lotte had time to rush out with her utensils, snatch 
an armful of clean clothes from the bars, get back 
to hide behind the dining-room door, while the car- 
riage was passing the windows. Lilian had already 
gone up-stairs to join Mary. While the guests were 
alighting, Charlotte made good her escape, and fled 


136 


Her Realm 


to her own quarters. Presently the young ladies 
and the preacher and his wife were seated in the 
family room, the only means of access to the stairs. 
Mrs. Livingstone and Constance did their best to 
cover up the absence of the others. Constance was 
making commendable use of her powers of enter- 
tainment just them, and Norman might have thanked 
her, for she rattled away at such a lively rate, 
and in so interesting a manner, as to give little 
opportunity for missing the others. Soon Char- 
lotte and, afterward, Lilian and Mary appeared, 
bridging the embarrassment for the time. 

Then a low whistle was heard under the window. 
It was the note of the quail, always used by the 
boys as a signal for Constance. She excused her- 
self. There stood Leroy, the picture of bewilder- 
ment. He motioned her to follow him to the other 
side of the house. 

“You will have to help us out,” said he. “We 
can’t go marching through that room, parading our 
brown shirts and patched overalls. And yet we 
shall have to get ready for dinner.” 

“I have it,” said Constance, brightening after a 
minute’s reflection. “I will go to father’s room, 
and hand his clothes through the window. Then 
he can dress over the kitchen.” 

“Good !” said Leroy. . “What about us boys ? 
Go on.” 

“Put a ladder up to the window on the north 


Behind the Scenes 


137 


side of the house, and, when you and Norman have 
climbed in, Caryl and I will take it away. Then, 
after the others have been called to dinner, you can 
come down and casually walk in behind them. ,, 

'‘Agreed !” said Leroy, laughing, and stuffing 
his handkerchief in his mouth to keep from being 
heard. 

A few minutes later a pair of pants, a coat, some 
stockings and shoes, were handed quietly out to 
Mr. Livingstone, who immediately repaired to the 
storeroom to make his toilet. Afterward, two 
rustic-clad figures might have been seen stealthily 
climbing a ladder, and disappearing through a win- 
dow at the top, to reappear, shortly, at the dinner- 
table in the garb of gentlemen. Every one was on 
hand as though it were the most natural result in 
the world. But, once or twice, Leroy hit Con- 
stance’s foot, and came near causing an explosion. 
This was averted, however, by a timely remark from 
the minister, giving occasion for a general laugh. 
Of course, no one noticed that Leroy and Con- 
stance found the joke unusually funny. Nor did 
any one think for a minute that their telegraphic 
glances had any hidden meaning. But after the 
meal, out behind the grape arbor, they indulged 
in a lively encounter of words. 

“You see if I ever help you again!” said she. 
“You are the most ungrateful boy I ever saw. I 
wish I had introduced you to the young ladies just 


138 


Her Realm 


as you were. I am sure Miss Nottingham would 
have been smitten by that big patch on your knee.” 

“O, come,” said he, “do forgive me, and I ’ll 
not do it again till next time Mr. Long comes.” 

Then both laughed, and the scene ended. Reproof 
never hurt him any. It rolled off too easily. 

That night, after the departure of the guests, 
the recital of the experiences of the morning were 
cause for much merriment. Here Leroy’s gift for 
drawing was brought into use. He presented three 
pictures for their entertainment. They may have 
been somewhat exaggerated, but were certainly sug- 
gestive. “The Arrival,” “Waiting for the Family,” 
and “Behind the Scenes,” were afterward put in 
the Livingstone archives. 

Then one of those strange spells comes over 
them — the indescribable witchery of home. Their 
guests are gone. It has often been so before, after 
the departure of friends. It is a rebound from the 
jest and laughter of the day, and settles upon them 
with irresistible power. They are gathered in the 
family room. The evening lamp swings low from 
the ceiling, over a table of magazines and books. 
Upon the wall above the organ hangs mother’s pic- 
ture, between two deer-heads from the Adirondacks. 
For a time they sit in silence, with an occasional 
upward glance at the picture. Possibly they are 
thinking of the unbroken group under the lamp 
that night, and of the approaching separation. At 


Behind the Scenes 


139 


any rate, it is a scene to dwell upon, and one to 
which their thoughts will often turn in years to 
come. They are disposed to drink deep of their 
cup of blessing, for it may not long be theirs in 
the peculiar fullness of this night. So they pause 
over its brimming contents. They are passing 
through that wonderful experience in the history 
of a large and happy family, — that halo-crowned 
period just before the first break. It is a time when 
the hopes of youth beat high, and yet the joys of 
childhood linger; a time which, once passed, never 
returns. 

At length, the stillness has wrought its work, 
and they become communicative. But what each 
one saw in those moments of silence, no one else 
knows. For “the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts.’' What “wild bewildering fancies” held 
the once “barefoot boy with cheek of tan,” as he 
listened “to voices in the upper air,” or what vision 
swayed the maiden, 

“ Standing with reluctant feet, 

Where the brook and river meet, ” 

let no one ask ; for only those may guess who have 
paused at the swelling of that river. 

Finally, Lilian takes her place at the organ, and 
rolls out the chords of music with unusual volume, 
flooding the rooms of the old house with rich and 
harmonious melody. Then she takes up the hymns 


140 


Her Realm 


with which they often close the day ; and they sing 
on and on before finding a stopping-place. 

Presently, Constance is found sitting apart, on 
a lounge across the room, looking with wistful 
eyes, and building castles such as only young girls 
know how to rear. Missing her, Mr. Livingstone 
walked over and sat down by her. 

“What are you thinking of, dear?” 

“Lots of things,” she said, putting her hand in 
his, and with that peculiar, far-off light still in her 
eyes. Then he put his arm tenderly about her, 
and asked: 

“Would you like a piano?” 

“Yes, father, I would,” she said. 

While the others continued their singing, he sat 
calculating how to gratify her wish, and she re- 
mained silent beside him. 

She had roamed the meadows, climbed trees, 
made friends with birds and squirrels, devoured 
books, shared the housework, helped in the hayfield, 
milked cows and ridden the horses. She had been 
ready to open gates, hunt eggs, and run on errands. 
The neighbors liked to see her come, for she had 
something sprightly to say. The boys always ap- 
pealed to her to extricate them from difficulties ; for 
she could see a way out, and she nearly always man- 
aged to accomplish what she undertook. When a 
very little girl, she had proceeded on the theory of 
success, and often got what she wanted where oth- 


Behind the Scenes 


141 


ers would fail. She had entered with all her soul 
into the joys of childhood. But the woman was 
wakening in her; and she would take up as ear- 
nestly life’s new responsibilities. Yet she looked 
“on the river’s broad expanse” with something of 
regret ; for “the brooklet’s swift advance” had often 
troubled her. She used to want to remain a baby, 
and did not like to see herself grow tall so fast. 
This bidding good-bye to girlhood was painful. 

A few days before this, she sat beside an open 
trunk, packing away her doll-clothes. 

“I hate to put them away,” she said, “but I 
don’t feel as though I want to play with them any 
more.” And tears fell on her “Annie Laurie,” of 
tender association. Shutting the trunk, and turn- 
ing the key, she lifted a sorrowful face to Mrs. Liv- 
ingstone, who undertsood and silently kissed her. 

At another time, she commented on a book she 
was reading: 

“I don’t like this chapter,” she said. 

“Why?” asked her mother. 

“Because the children all stop playing.” 

So she felt it deeply when she saw childhood slip- 
ping away, and knew life as lomething more than 
“riding down hill in winter, and picking flowers in 
summer.” She sat close to her father that night, 
as if to steady her craft in its swift advance into 
the wider waters. 

That was a great summer at Maple Grove. 


142 


Her Realm 


Lawrence and Charlotte were preparing to return to 
college for the last time. Norman and Lilian were 
Sophomores, and, having a host of friends, were 
often regaled by tourists on wheel, who were sure 
that nothing could compare with Lilian’s ice-cream 
and cake. Leroy had finished his course at the 
academy. But there were certain reasons why he 
must delay further progress as a student just at 
present. His father wanted one of the boys on the 
farm that year, and he was the only one available. 
Besides, he was in need of that kind of discipline. 
He ought to learn the difficulty of earning money, 
for he already knew how easily one could spend 
it. To help pay his own way would do him 
good. He did not take the remedy favorably, but 
afterward he felt better ; and a year later, when he 
accompanied Mary to the university, he was stronger 
for it. 

The Sunday evening before going back to col- 
lege, Charlotte looked out from the window of her 
room. “O for the power to describe such a night !” 
said she. Pale moonlight was resting peacefully 
upon hazy hills. Thick shadows lay upon the lawn. 
Nothing broke the silence but the hum of insects 
and, later, the sound of distant church-bells. The 
little room that she had called hers through all these 
years ! How could she think of leaving it, even for 
a few months? And that east window! Many a 


Behind the Scenes 


143 


night, sitting there with her head outside, had she 
listened to the crickets and the frogs, and feasted 
her eyes on the stately maples that seemed so ten- 
derly to shut her in from all the worry and per- 
plexity of the turbulent world. 

'‘Lilian, come here,” she called to her sister in 
the next room, “did you ever see anything like 
this?” 

They sat some time without a word. Then 
Charlotte spoke: 

“Could you imagine such another mother as 
ours? It is amazing. I know it is hard for her to 
see Lawrence and me go back for the last time. 
I can tell by her eyes. Yet she has not opposed a 
word.” 

“I know,” said Lilian, who herself felt deeply 
at the thought of leaving her mother again. “When 
I mentioned it to her the other day, her face just 
shone. ‘We must not feel that way, dear/ she said. 
‘That is what I have been working for. I wanted 
to go out to help win some of the world’s battles, 
but I saw I must wait. Now Lawrence and Char- 
lotte are nearly ready to go in my stead, and I am 
thankful. Soon you and Norman will follow.’ But 
she hurried away just then, as though she felt more 
than she cared to show.” 

“This noon, after church,” said Charlotte, “I 
came upon her coming out of the woods. 


144 


Her Realm 


“ ‘This is hard/ I said. 

“ ‘No/ said she, ‘this is easy. Let us not forget 
poor Mrs. Thornton/ 

“Then we came down through the orchard to- 
gether. And she talked. You know how she can 
talk. She made me feel it was all right.” 

“Let me tell you, Charlotte,” said Lilian, after 
an unusually long pause, “when I am through with 
school, I mean to come and stay with mother as long 
as she lives.” 

Charlotte looked at her sister in silence, know- 
ing that nothing would better accord with her qui- 
etly-heroic character than just such unpretentious 
service. Lilian scarcely realized then to what she 
was committing herself. But she never proved false 
to her voluntarily-accepted trust. Many who knew 
her brothers and sisters in the years of their public 
activity little guessed of the one who was supple- 
menting the mother’s work in helping to keep the 
home bright. But some knew, and blessed her 
for it. 


CHAPTER XII 


ON THE VERGE 

“The last times keep coming,” wrote Charlotte, 
the 1st of March in her Senior year. “We shall 
have no more class exhibitions after to-night. It 
is lonely to think of. I am glad the weather suits 
me. The air is full of flying snow. The wind 
fairly shrieks, and tears through the streets, rushes 
around the corners, shakes the houses, and roars 
away moaning in the distance. It is wild and sub- 
lime, and thrills me with the exhilaration of power.” 

Then she stopped soaring and came down to 
something practical. It was nearing graduation, 
and she wished mother would come up soon and 
approve her selection for a dress. She could have 
done it as well herself; but she wanted to talk of 
other questions that were not as easily adjusted. 
The answer to the letter carried the satisfactory 
information of a proposed trip the 18th of March. 

As it proved, another trip to the city was also 
planned for that day. Margaret Thornton had de- 
veloped into a strikingly beautiful young woman, 
10 145 


146 


Her Realm 


except Tor something a trifle deceptive in her face. 
It is feared that the society of the Progressive Club 
was partly responsible for that. And yet Mrs. 
Thornton had felt little uneasiness, for the girls 
were all from the best families in the village. In- 
deed, it was but recently that there was any ap- 
parent occasion for anxiety, and then, possibly, 
only in the case of Margaret. 

A certain *tarrie Jenness, said to be from New 
York, of unknown antecedents, but captivating man- 
ner, had set out to win the confidence of Miss 
Thornton. How she secured admission to the club, 
it is difficult to say. But she succeeded. Once in, 
her conquest was surer. Yet she had to work a long 
time, for Margaret had native virtues hard to con- 
quer. At last she had her. Mrs. Thornton was 
then an easier victim. Carrie Jenness was charm- 
ing. Her frequent calls at the home soon fixed the 
impression of her womanliness and sincerity. Then 
she could readily secure co-operation in any plan 
suggested. A walk in the early evening across the 
bridge and along the river proved to be full of 
innocent delight. The dancing moonbeams, fall- 
ing water, and soughing pines, all the wonders of 
a summer night, would fill Margaret’s soul as she 
saw them through the eyes of her friend. These 
quiet strolls, always ending early, had in them no 
suspicion of impropriety, at least not to Margaret. 
And any fear in Mrs. Thornton’s case was allayed 


On the Verge 


147 


at once upon the return of the girls, so skillfully did 
Carrie throw this mother off her guard. 

After these occasional walks were no more mat- 
ter of concern, the next step was easy. A ride to 
the Glen would be pleasant. Mrs. Thornton’s of- 
fer of her blacks and coachman was rejected. A 
livery would be better. Consequently, soon after 
breakfast one morning, two handsome young wo- 
men, Carrie Jenness the driver, sped up the valley 
past Maple Grove, to the lake north. It was a 
day to delight one’s soul. The silver mist of the 
morning, rolling up from the valley and back over 
the hills, had floated in beautiful white clouds into 
the blue above. The woodlands were brilliant in 
georgeous October hues. An invigorating breeze 
blew from the north. Carrie was a good driver. 
Her team soon covered the ten miles between the 
village and the Glen. One could scarce imagine a 
more bewitching picture than that of those two girls 
stopping in their carriage under the trees by the 
lake. The wind against which they rode had deep- 
ened the color in their cheeks, in keeping with the 
dazzling leaves above them. 

Some light refreshments at the hotel prepared 
them for the following sail down the sixteen miles 
of lake. It was a ride to captivate the heart. At 
the west, precipitous, wood-clothed hills came down 
to the water’s edge. At the east, sloping fields, 
dotted with farmhouses, rolled away to the hori- 


148 


Her Realm 


zon. The lower end of the lake was near enough 
to the city to make it a favorite resort for wheel- 
men; and, though late in the season, it was not 
yet entirely deserted. By the time the young ladies 
landed, dinner had been ordered at the hotel for 
four. To state it moderately, it was a decidedly social 
occasion. And when the steamer pulled off from the 
wharf toward night, for the return up the lake, Carrie 
and Margaret were not alone, nor were they alone 
upon their homeward ride down the valley. The full 
moon, shedding its soft light upon the hills, looked 
out upon two carriages rolling hastily along the 
highway. As she came near Margaret glanced up 
at Maple Grove, lying so peacefully upon the slope. 
She would not have cared just then to meet the 
eyes of that good mother there. Though, possibly, 
if she could, she would have gladly changed places 
with her Mary. But she rode on. 

When, a half hour later, she and Carrie stepped 
into Mrs. Thornton’s brightly-lighted parlors, they 
soon dispelled that woman’s forebodings by enliv- 
ening accounts of the drive, the strolls through the 
autumn-tinted woods, resting, and lunch at the 
hotel, and the return in early moonlight. But of 
the steamboat ride and what followed, not a word. 
They were playing their game, with Mrs. Thornton 
blindfolded. The further they went, the more 
shrewdly they played. What if this new friend 
were playing her game with Margaret also blinded ! 


149 


On the Verge 

The winter passed without unusual event. But 
Carrie Jenness was alwa>j on hand with plenty of 
leisure and money. 

“Who is this Miss Jenness?” asked Mrs. Long 
one day of a caller. 

“No one seems to know much about her,” was 
Mrs. Vinton’s reply. “To a careless observer she 
appears very delightful. But money and leisure 
in the possession of a young girl who gives no ex- 
planation of her presence here are causing un- 
favorable comment.” 

“But Mrs. Thornton shows no concern,” said 
Mrs. Long. 

“There is the difficulty,” replied Mrs. Vinton. 
“When less influential ladies see a social leader al- 
lowing such intimacy, they feel helpless. What 
can they do?” 

Some of them realized afterward what they 
should have done, and could scarcely forgive them- 
selves for lack of courage to speak their convictions. 
But Mrs. Vinton saw where Margaret was drifting, 
and determined to make an effort to save her. It 
was a time of spiritual awakening in the village 
Church. Upon leaving Mrs. Long’s that afternoon, 
she chanced to meet Margaret, and, taking her by 
the arm, strolled down the street. Mrs. Vinton 
was one of those gentle, saintly women who won the 
respect of all who knew her. 

“Margaret,” she said, after a brief pause in con- 


150 


Her Realm 


versation, “I hope you will not let this opportunity 
pass. You might lead such a beautiful life for 
Christ. Besides, there is so great danger in delay.” 

“Yes, I know,” said Margaret, thoughtfully. 

“So many of your friends,” continued Mrs. Vin- 
ton, “have chosen the better way, and are earnestly 
praying for you.” 

“They have told me so more than once,” was 
the reply. 

“Then you will not sleep to-night until you have 
settled this question?” 

Margaret had been profoundly impressed by the 
solemn warnings from night to night, and, for a 
week, had given serious consideration to the sacred 
claims, and had almost yielded; for she knew her 
own peril. So she said to Mrs. Vinton : 

“Yes, I will settle it to-night.” 

“May God help you!” was the fervent reply. 
And, believing further words unnecessary, she smil- 
ingly went on her way. 

Margaret, turning the corner up the main street, 
hastened her steps toward home. “Yes,” she was 
saying to herself, “I must decide to-night. Longer 
suspense is unbearable.” 

The frequent importunities of her friends and 
the final appeal from Mrs. Vinton were about to 
bear fruit. So it might have been, but, coming 
down a cross street just then, Carrie Jenness met 
her. She had witnessed the earnest conversation 


On the Verge 151 

with Mrs. Vinton, and improved the first opportu- 
nity to counteract her influence. 

“Why so sober?” she said cheerily. “What has 
come over our gay Margaret? You can’t afford 
to spoil your handsome face this way.” 

Then Margaret smiled, and, scarcely knowing 
it, was at Carrie’s mercy. 

“This won’t do,” went on her companion. “Just 
as though you were not already good enough! If 
you were like other young people, it might be well 
to repent. But you are naturally perfect.” 

Although Margaret knew this to be untrue, and 
deeply felt her own need of a better heart, she had 
not the courage to insist at that time. She was 
strangely under the power of this girl. 

“Mrs. Vinton is a lovely woman,” continued 
Carrie ; “but you yourself know that she is not very 
broadminded. She stays here in this little village. 
What does she know about the outside world? She 
is not the one to give you advice. Your own mother 
would admit that.” 

This statement was untrue, for Mrs. Thornton 
knew and respected the cultured and noble Mrs. 
Vinton. But Carrie grew bolder, as she saw how 
ready Margaret was to accept her words, and even 
ventured ridicule. 

“You mustn’t allow yourself,” she said, “to be 
influenced by these goody-goody saints. You ’re 
no Sunday-school baby.” Again she resorted to 


152 


Her Realm 


flattery. “You can easily command the respect of 
brilliant people. There is no need of being content 
with such humdrum folks as Mrs. Vinton and Mr. 
Long. I never met any one for whom I cared as 
much as I do for you, and I want you to see some- 
thing of the world with me.” 

They stood now at Mrs. Thornton’s gate. 'Carrie 
was smiling her sweetest. “Give yourself time,” 
she said, “and you ’ll get over these notions. I 
know you will not disappoint me. I can trust you, 
my dear.” Then, as she turned away, “I ’ll be in 
to see your mother to-morrow morning. I have a 
lovely plan for you and me, that I am sure she 
will like. Good-bye.” 

Mrs. Thornton was out, and would not be in 
till dinner, an hour later; so Margaret settled in a 
chair before the drawing-room grate, and was alone 
with her thoughts. Calling to mind the words of 
Mrs. Vinton and Carrie, she said to herself: 

“I promised to settled it to-night, and I will ; but 
I can not turn Carrie away. She is too irresistible. 
A few years of sightseeing won’t harm me. So 
I ’ll not go to church this evening. Mrs. Vinton 
will miss me, but may think I am sick.” 

Thus finishing her soliloquy, she turned to the 
piano, and rattled off a frivolous air. 

Mrs. Vinton did miss her, and was much dis- 
tressed by her absence from the service, which was 
of deep spiritual power. Though she diligently 


On the Verge 


153 


sought to speak with her, she did not succeed until 
a week later, when she called at her home. By that 
time, however, her words had little weight. Finally, 
rising to go, Mrs. Vinton, with tears in her eyes, 
took Margaret’s hands in hers, and said: 

“Remember, I shall continue to pray for you.” 

“Thank you,” was the reply, “though I fear it 
will not do much good.” And, somewhat sadly, 
she watched from the window the departure of this 
true friend. 

The morning after meeting Margaret, Carrie 
Jenness had called, as she proposed. It was Mrs. 
Thornton’s custom to go to the city every season 
for a supply of clothing, hats, shoes, and gloves. 

“Mrs. Thornton,” said Carrie, soon after being 
seated, “why not let Margaret and me buy the 
Easter hats this spring? It would be a good ex- 
perience for us. We could go to the city on the 
morning train, and be back in the afternoon. We 
would need only a few hours. Later in the season 
you could go for your usual shopping.” 

“I see no objection,” was the reply. And the 
plan was fixed. 

When the day came, Carrie called for Margaret. 
Then they bade good-bye to Mrs. Thornton, and 
walked down the street. 

She looked after them, till she saw them turn 
the corner toward the station. Then she lifted her 
eyes upon Mrs. Livingstone, riding in the same 


154 


Her Realm 


direction. That is how those two trips to the city 
came on the 18th of March. 

The young ladies did not stay in the waiting- 
room, and so were not seen by Mrs. Livingstone 
until the train pulled out. They being at the farther 
end of the car, she only recognized Margaret, pre- 
suming the other to be a friend. The city reached, 
the girls hurriedly left, but not before Mrs. Liv- 
ingstone had a good look into Carrie Jenness’s face. 
She was startled. When she had sufficiently recov- 
ered herself her opportunity was gone. The girls 
were nowhere to be seen. She felt impelled to put 
an officer on their track, though perhaps she had 
no right. Then, too, a sudden dread seized her on 
account of Charlotte and Lilian, awaiting her com- 
ing at the university, and she hastened on. But 
the face of that girl ! She had seen it before. And 
she recalled with great vividness the return from 
the city a few months previous, and the disappear- 
ing of this girl with a woman in the darkness, down 
a lonely street of the village. 

It was nearing time for the afternoon train from 
the north. Mrs. Thornton, though not openly op- 
posing the plan of the girls, had yet felt a little 
reluctance, and had been on the point of calling 
them back before they passed through the gate; 
but she did not know what to say, and let them 
go. Now she was pacing the floor, anxiously await- 
ing their return. The locomotive whistled. Her 


On the Verge 


155 


heart beat fast. She never remembered to have 
passed so weary a day. She walked to the window. 
The girls would be there in at least twenty minutes. 
She looked at the clock. Ten minutes passed; 
fifteen minutes; then twenty. She looked down the 
street. Twenty-five minutes ! They may have 
stopped at the post-office. Thirty minutes! An 
hour! Then Mrs. Thornton gave up. They must 
have been detained in the city. That would be nat- 
ural. Buying Easter hats was always slow. But 
the next train would not be in before eleven o’clock, 
and she must wait for that. The coachman was 
ordered to have the carriage ready. She herself 
would meet them at the station. She was to have 
presided at a banquet that evening, but sent her 
regrets. Sickness prevented. After dinner, Mrs. 
Thornton tried to compose herself for the hours 
until traintime. Her husband having dined in 
haste, had returned to the office, and had not de- 
tected his wife’s agony. She was so uniformly 
self-possessed that there was seldom need for his 
encouragement. 

Presently Horace came in with two or three 
companions, and went up to the third floor, where 
he often entertained his friends. Up there were 
the necessary arrangements for convivial gather- 
ings — a billiard-table, a smoking-room, and, if any- 
thing else was lacking, he could easily supply it. The 
table was put there to “keep her boy at home.” 


156 


Her Realm 


What followed was natural. The hours dragged 
heavily. The sounds from up-stairs were not sooth- 
ing, and once she was on the point of investigating, 
but she did not. Mr. Thornton could better do that 
later. Besides, she was anxious about the next 
train. 

Eight o’clock! Nine o’clock! At that time she 
knew her club sisters were gathered for the banquet. 
How small a place she seemed to hold in the club 
world just then ! All the heroic effort of past years 
rose up to mock her, and appeared but “vanity 
of vanities.” Not that it lacked merit; but she had 
deserted her throne to accomplish it. Ten o’clock ! 
The coachman was ordered out. She could wait 
no longer, and was at the station forty-five minutes 
ahead of the train. From that time until after the 
whistle announcing its coming, a woman, full of 
self-condemnation and retmorse, paced back and 
forth upon the platform. The coachman had tried 
to persuade her to go within, but to be out in the 
night suited her better. At sight of the engine her 
heart leaped, for she was longing to clasp Mar- 
garet in her arms. But, hold ! the train has stopped. 
Several passengers step off and take the ’bus for the 
hotel. What! The engine begins to throb and 
slowly moves out into the darkness. No Margaret ! 
And no train returns to the city till daylight. 

At home again, she continues pacing back and 
forth, through all the rooms down-stairs, then up 


On the Verge 


157 


in Margaret’s room, then in her own. No sleep 
for her that night! Those returning from the ban- 
quet saw a light in her window, and hoped she was 
not seriously ill. Twelve o’clock! She started. If 
she could have seen her daughter at that moment — 
but heaven spared her that affliction! 


CHAPTER XIII 


TOO LATE 

Two years have wrought a great change in that 
stately home in the village. The brilliantly-lighted 
windows are now darkened. Seldom any one passes 
through the gate, either coming or going. Few 
are welcomed. Mrs. Livingston, however, occa- 
sionally goes. But even she appears to carry small 
comfort to the lonely woman dwelling there. All 
she can do is to listen again and again to the story 
of remorse. It was a remorse so deep as to have 
produced almost incurable melancholy. For Mrs. 
Thornton was usually found, as the night she waited 
for the train, tirelessly pacing the floor back and 
forth, back and forth, until it wearied one to look 
at her. Then she would pause in front of Mrs. 
Livingstone with the oft-repeated words: “I took 
too much time from my children. Now they are 
beyond my reach. It is too late !” And she would 
pace the room again. 

“O, I thought the world needed me. Now see 
what I have given to the world. I would better 
not have been born, for all the good I have done.” 
Then more pacing! 


158 


Too Late 


159 


“If I could find my Margaret I would forgive 
her all. What did I do? what did I do?” she would 
moan. “If we could only get away from our 
thoughts !” Then, after a little, “But night and day 
I think and think of Margaret — no one knows where 
she is — and of Horace. He is growing so reckless. 
He does not seem to care much for me ; and he does 
not look like the innocent little back-eyed boy that 
rode up to see your baby.” 

Mrs. Livingstone found it hard to listen, for it 
did seem so much as though it might have been 
different. She would try to put in some comforting 
word, but in vain. 

After that terrible night of waiting two years 
before, Mrs. Thornton had gone early in the morn- 
ing to the city. There she found traces of her 
daughter, but also became convinced that she had 
left for some distant place. She did not learn till 
afterward that, instead of ten dollars, Margaret 
had taken one hundred from her father’s safe. 
From that day all the light went out of Mrs. Thorn- 
ton’s life. She was a changed woman. With 
never-ceasing diligence she sought to find the 
wanderer. She learned of her being in Cleveland, 
in Chicago, and, she thought, in Denver. But that 
was all she could ascertain. In vain during the 
long winter evenings she listened for a footfall upon 
the porch. In vain she kept her lamp burning until 
late into the night, in the hope that Margaret, re- 


160 


Her Realm 


turning, might know there was welcome. In vain 
she wrote inquiries and read newspapers for some 
due. Since that ominous 18th of March two lux- 
uriant summers and two cold and snowy winters 
had passed over the quiet village; and the joyous 
Easter-time was again bringing home to many a 
heart, but it brought no Margaret. 

Mr. Thornton was not of much consolation to 
his wife. He once said to Mrs. Livingstone: “I 
used to tell my daughter what was right, and, if 
she had a mind to go wrong, it is not my fault.” 

“That is,” replied Mrs. Livingstone, “you put 
your daughter into the fire, and told her not to get 
burned; if she did, it was her fault. You should 
have tried, if possible, to keep your children out of 
danger. Then, if they fell, you would have done 
your part.” 

But she rather regretted the reprimand. For 
what good could it do now ! She never would have 
said it to Mrs. Thornton. But his indifference 
moved her. When she thought how careless fathers 
and mothers are about the guideboards, she did not 
wonder at the multitudes of boys and girls going 
over. But it was sickening. And she felt like 
ascribing honor to the woman, however humble or 
poor or unlearned she might be, who had convic- 
tions, and courage to stand by them for the good 
of her children. 


Too Late 


161 


One night, Mrs. Thornton fell into a troubled 
sleep, in which she gazed upon a frightful scene. 
She saw Margaret and Carrie as they had looked 
that October morning before the ride to the Glen, 
pictures of health and beauty. In her dream it 
was moonlight. The girls were tripping, hand in 
hand, thoughtlessly along a mountain highway, 
until, without knowing of danger, they suddenly 
stood upon the edge of a precipice overhanging the 
rocky shore of a lake. In her dream she was hor- 
rified. Yet as they passed her, with loosely-flowing 
hair and sparkling eyes, they were lightly singing: 

“ Sowing the tares when it might have been wheat. ” 

Mrs. Thornton awoke with a start. She saw what 
the dream meant and told it, a few days later, to 
Mrs. Livingstone, remarking afterward that surely 
she would hear from Margaret. 

In a week she received a letter from a matron of 
one of the “homes” in Denver, stating that a girl, 
known as “Mag” had been brought there from 
one of the resorts of the city, and advising her if 
she wished to see her alive, to come quickly, though 
it might do no good, for the girl seemed like a 
demon. The earliest possible train, however, car- 
ried Mrs. Thornton toward the West. Past 
richly-blooming orchards and green wheatfields, 
over river and beside lakes, she sped. But she 
11 


162 


Her Realm 


cared for none of these. Her daughter was leaping 
the precipice! She felt that she could not stop her 
plunge. Yet she would make one last effort. 
Reaching Chicago, hundreds of miles of prairie still 
law between her and her lost girl. It was a long 
and dreary ride. At length the train pulled into 
Denver, and she was hastily driven in the darkness 
to the Home mentioned in a secluded part of the 
city, and, on presenting her card, was promptly 
admitted. 

The assistant hastened to say: “We rather 
hoped you would not come. For I fear there is 
no use for you to see her. She is so wild.” 

“O, I must see her! Take me to her quick!” 
said Mrs. Thornton, almost fainting from long 
anxiety and grief. 

She was reluctantly led through the hall, up 
the stairs, to a small room in the farther corner. 
The door was quietly opened. 

The place was clean, but barely furnished, the 
better portions of the house having been already 
occupied. A single bed stood upon the bare floor. 
Three straight-backed chairs and a little table, upon 
which were a lamp and a few books, made up the 
remaining articles. Closed shutters at the two 
small windows kept out the starlight. But no 
drapery or other adornment relieved the white walls. 
Margaret was reclining on the bed, her head rest- 
ing on her hand, a faithful nurse watching beside 


Too Late 


163 


her. Upon entering, Mrs. Thornton nearly dropped. 
What a change from the beautiful Margaret of two 
years before, in her own large and splendidly-fur- 
nished home to this repulsive Margaret, in the poor 
little cheerless room, away in a Western city ! The 
contrast was shocking. Mrs. Thornton stood halt- 
ing upon the threshold before gathering courage 
to enter. Margaret looked up, and seeing her 
mother, glared at her, as if recognizing the woman 
who had led her astray, and demanded : “Why did 
you come here ? Go away !” 

“O, Margaret darling/’ said Mrs. Thornton, 
stepping toward her, “do n’t you know me ? Come, 
and I will forgive you all. Come, and forgive me.” 

Such yearning in that mother’s eyes was hard 
to see. The girl was now sitting up boldly, her 
long black hair in the wildest disorder, her dark 
eyes fiercely gleaming, her hands clinched, and she 
herself in the posture of a beast about to leap upon 
its prey. Mrs. Thornton hesitated, for very fear, 
yet held out her hands in supplication. 

“Come,” she pleaded, “come, my daughter.” 
And in her voice and manner were all a mother’s 
heart of love. 

Margaret’s attitude was terrific. 

“Back !” she hissed. “Do n’t you see I’m a 
devil ?” And her hideous roar filled the house. The 
very mouth of hell seemed yawning. It was easy 
for those onlookers to believe in the abode of the 


164 


Her Realm 


lost, and in the personality of the archfiend. He 
had this girl in his awful grip, and was relentlessly 
dragging her down. No power on earth could stop 
him. They almost thought they could hear his 
demoniac laugh, and they shrank as though they 
themselves were in danger. She was becoming 
so fierce that two strong attendants could scarcely 
hold her. She pulled at the bedding until it was 
in a tumultuous heap. Then she began to 
catch up imaginary weapons and hurl them 
at her mother, demanding that she “get out!” 
until it became necessary for Mrs. Thornton to con- 
ceal herself behind the door. 

“If she had n’t gone, I would have killed her ! 
If it had n’t been for her, I would n’t be here to- 
night.” Then her infernal laugh rang through the 
hall. Afterward she became more calm, but still 
mistook her mother for that dreadful woman who, 
three and a half years before, had ridden down the 
dark street of the village, and who, with Carrie 
Jenness as her tool, had shrewdly set the trap for 
this girl’s virtue. Margaret became very talkative. 
And, if there is any truth in her statements, upon 
coming to the city that dreadful day, she and Car- 
rie had been taken into a closed carriage and driven 
hurriedly to this woman’s apartments. She had 
sever seen Carrie since, but that night was taken, 
upon promise of a brilliant career, by this woman 
herself on board a west-bound train to Cleveland. 


Too Late 


165 


After a few months of wretched existence she was 
sent to Chicago, and finally to Denver. The rest 
of the story her rescuers told. They had found 
her, the week before, over a third-rate saloon, in a 
frightful state of intoxication. Some- indistinct 
writing on certain papers she carried revealed the 
address of Mrs. Thornton, and led to the com- 
munication with her. It was too late to save Mar- 
garet, yet it might be some consolation to her 
mother to know that Christian hands had tenderly 
administered care in her dying hour. 

The girl’s fury had now passed, and, exhausted, 
she lay among the pillows apparently asleep. Pres- 
ently she started up. She was very weak and 
seemed not to know any one. Then her mother 
ventured to come forth. How she longed to speak 
and clasp her daughter, repulsive though she was, 
to her heart ! But she forbore, dreading the return 
of that horrible raving. Margaret appeared to 
have lost something, and was looking for it among 
the bedclothes. 

“I can’t find it,” she said. '‘Where is it; that 
book ?” 

Then her mother handed her a volume of poems 
from the table. 

“No,” said Margaret, “that is not the one. It 
was the Bible I wanted. I can’t find it.” 

Then Mrs. Thornton brought a copy of the New 
Testament. Margaret took it eagerly, and sat for 


166 


Her Realm 


a long time with glazed eyes, poring over its pages. 
She was pitiful to see. Her sight fixed upon the 
book, yet seeming to pierce beyond it to the turbu- 
lent stream before her! 

At length she spoke with great difficulty. 
“ ‘Who resist/ ” said she, recalling a line from 
from Bickersteth, once read in her innocent girl- 
hood. “ ‘Who resist — the blood-stained — cross, re- 
sist — resist — the — utter — most — uttermost that 
Heaven— can — do!” Then so long a pause, they 
thought she had gone. 

“O” — they listened — “I am lost! I am lost!” 

One breath, and the chimes in the cathedral 
tower tolled three. 

After that, every morning during all the long 
summer, a desolate woman in the village, dressed 
in deep mourning, was seen to walk toward the west 
and the south, until she came to an abrupt slope, 
where the “dead people rest.” Passing through the 
iron gate, along the gravel walks, by the vaults and 
stately shafts, among the evergreen trees, she would 
climb at length to the farther limit of the grounds, 
in the edge of the woods. Here she would bend 
over a lonely grave, and drop choice flowers from 
a basket she carried on her arm. It did not count 
for much then. The flowers ought to have been 
scattered years before. But it seemed in some 
mysterious way to dull a little the edge of her sor- 


Too Late 


167 


row. So, through rain and sun, in all the months 
that followed, until frost came, Mrs. Thornton made 
her daily pilgrimage to that hillside grave. And 
every time she stood looking upon it she seemed 
to see Margaret’s face, with her lips moving. And 
these were the words she heard : 

“Who resist 

The blood-stained cross, resist the uttermost 
That Heaven can do.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


HER WIDENING INFLUENCE 

The ever-constant maples still shelter the old 
house. The winds blow up the valley and stir 
their multitudinous leaves. The robins build nests 
in their branches. The sun shines by day, and the 
stars look out by night. Or sometimes the rain 
patters on the roof of Charlotte’s “den.” The brook 
sings over pebbles in the meadow. The crickets 
chirp and the frogs croak as before. Every morn- 
ing, the same as a score of years ago, the throbbing 
in the engine-house sounds a note of industry in the 
quiet valley, while herds of cattle pasture on the 
slopes. To the wheelman passing along the high- 
way, nothing differs much from conditions of that 
bright May morning when Mrs. Livingstone smiled 
upon the flight of her three-year-old Constance out 
upon the dewy lawn. Outwardly there is not much 
alteration. But there is a change within. And 
sometimes, to those who feel it most, it is not alto- 
gether a pleasant change. Yet it is one that comes 
to every household — a time when children’s prattle 
is hushed, when their toys are put away, when their 
168 


Her Widening Influence 


169 


feet no more come tripping from the woods with 
wild flowers for mother, nor their songs and merry 
laughter ring through the fields. It is a time when 
childish sports give way to the mature plans and 
the life problems of busy men and women. 

Such a change has come to Maple Grove. And 
now the old familiar call of the early morning, “Co, 
bos ! co, bos !” has in it something inexpressibly sad 
to those who listen. Whether it is the lonely roll- 
ing of the sound over the hills, or the calling up 
of a thousand memories of other days, that strikes 
the minor chord, can not be told. 

The change has touched father and mother, too. 
For they begin to show age. Yet the stray white 
hairs and the few wrinkles of the face are but marks 
of completeness for their coming translation. 
Mother has not as many cares as when her boys 
used to come whistling up from the meadow with 
buttons off or suspenders broken. Father has fewer 
interruptions than when he had kites to make and 
sleds to mend. Their evenings now are quiet and 
undisturbed. They can read books, attend lec- 
tures, or visit friends, as inclination prompts. There 
is time also for certain benevolent activities before 
impossible. Business conditions have likewise 
changed. The development of their butter-trade 
has brought to an end the days of close economy. 

Mary is teaching in the village academy. Con- 
stance and Caryl are away at college. Constance is 


170 


Her Realm 


already fulfilling the prophecies of her earlier years. 
Her imaginative faculty, which, we may believe, 
helped to lead her into many a disgraceful false- 
hood, now makes her the most interesting writer 
in her class. Her early collection of fossils on the 
farm makes her observations in botany of more 
than ordinary value, while her ability to read char- 
acter, early evinced in her comments on the neigh- 
bors, has served her in good stead in selecting 
friends among her classmates. When she once de- 
termined to go to college, no one felt much doubt 
of her getting through, remembering her habit of 
doing what she undertook. Her executive ability 
proved to be greater than that of any of her sisters. 
Although she has often declared her determination 
to marry neither a minister nor a missionary, but 
somebody rich and handsome, her purpose seems 
weakening of late. For a tall, somewhat angular 
individual, of large soul and commanding intellect, 
has often, during the summer vacation, wheeled 
from the city to Maple Grove. He has a heart for 
those trees. And then a hammock swings beneath 
them, and sometimes a tall young woman with gol- 
den hair and blue eyes rests there. Somehow he 
likes to sit beside her. From the parlor window 
mother looks out and smiles, and is satisfied. 
Though he is neither handsome nor rich, yet he is 
doing what he can to point the way for those with 
“burdens upon their barks.” Maybe Constance will 


Her Widening Influence 


171 


thus do some of the work reluctantly passed over 
by her mother. If so, what greater reward could 
be asked for the ,years of patient training ? 

Leroy always had manifested mechanical genius. 
Even as a boy he won a neighborhood reputation 
as a builder of straw-stacks. They never fell over. 
Men used sometimes to come for miles across the 
hills to hire him. Then, too, such marvels of cab- 
inet work as he turned out of his father’s shop ! The 
dolls of Constance and Mary always had an as- 
sortment of tables, beds, and chairs of his manu- 
facture. Having taken a course in electrical en- 
gineering, he had recently accepted a position in 
Kansas as superintendent of construction. He soon 
found a girl of the Sunflower State to his liking, 
and a picture of his six months’ old Mary now adorns 
the mantel at Maple Grove. 

After three years as missionary among the In- 
dians of North Dakota, Lawrence came east for his 
bride, making a short stay, and returned with her to 
his work in the Northwest. Friends that visit 
the old home are shown pictures also of two of the 
sweetest little girls, Lucretia and Lilian. 

Charlotte taught one year in Iowa. Then her 
college president thought he had more need of her 
in his home, and she willingly accepted the change, 
making a trip back to the farm for the needed prep- 
aration. Maple Grove never was so beautiful to 
her as during that summer, because she had ears 


172 


Her Realm 


to hear and eyes to see. For what more than the 
making of a trousseau gives music to babbling 
brooks, deepens foliage on the trees, and enriches 
moonlight on the hills? Certain it was, that while 
she put stitches into her wedding garments, she 
read new meaning in the forests and meadows, the 
sunshine and rain. When the tints were on the 
trees, she intrusted this bit of confidence to her 
journal: “These days are full of beauty to me, 
since they continually bring me nearer my sweetest 
earthly joy.” Thus the summer and early autumn 
passed. And one day, when the woods were ablaze 
with color, she rode down the drive, from under 
her beloved maples, as she had never gone before, 
out into that mysterious and untried world of ten- 
derest human joys and sorrows. 

Seven years have passed since then. There came 
to the Iowa home a little spirit that tarried for a 
brief space, and one winter night, soon after Christ- 
mas-tide, flew from its cage back to the bosom 
of the Father. In the morning the message flashed 
over the wires to Maple Grove was this : “Our Eva- 
line is with Jesus.” And, all day long, a mother- 
heart in that old home was thinking of her daughter 
in the West, with arms empty, listening in vain 
for the sound of little feet. She was thinking also 
of the fields of light, and of the presence there of 
One “who never knew a touch of sinful grief,” 
whose face, radiant with celestial love and beauty, 


Her Widening Influence 


173 


would, in time to come, smile to them a welcome 
home. But she wrote to Charlotte, “I am so glad 
you brought her here last summer,” and such other 
words as Mrs. Livingstone knew how to write. 
Now little Lawrence and Gertrude occupy a large 
place, and sometimes are more than a match for 
their mother’s wisdom and patience. They cer- 
tainly have been the occasion of the breaking of 
some previously-formed rules for the management 
of children. Charlotte has much less positive knowl- 
edge upon the subject than formerly. 

Norman gives the impression of being a fix- 
ture on the farm. His executive ability might be 
coveted for other occupations; but, like his father, 
he is wise enough to see the possibilities of intelli- 
gence applied to country problems, and, with his 
youthful determination, makes a successful man- 
ager in the already extensive business. Any refer- 
ence to his delay in matrimonial affairs will draw 
from him the solemn declaration that a man of 
twenty-nine years is too immature and inexperienced 
for so serious an undertaking. 

Lilian is still mindful of the purpose expressed 
to Charlotte a few years before, and is content with 
the exercise of domestic virtues in her childhood 
home. Neither she nor her parents, possibly, real- 
ize fully what she is to them. But it is probable that 
her father would eye pretty sharply any fellow that 
would be coming to see her. 


174 


Her Realm 


More than six years again pass. Caryl has re- 
turned from the theological school, where he has 
taken the course since leaving college. This is the 
first night home, and in the twilight of the evening 
he is alone with his mother on the front porch. He 
sits at her feet with his head in her lap, while she 
smoothes his hair and looks into his blue eyes. She 
seems to be reading something. After a few min- 
utes of silence, he says : 

“Do you know it, mother?” 

“Know what, my boy? I think you want to tell 
me something.” 

“Yes, listen, mother. I am sure you will not be 
displeaded. I want to do what I can to help folks 
that are down. I had hoped to continue work 
among the poor and degraded in Chicago. But I have 
noted so often the unavailing effort to secure addi- 
tional men for our work in foreign lands, that I 
feel impelled to go myself, if I am wanted. May I ?” 

He waited, looking steadily into her face. And 
the birds twittered, and the brook in the meadow 
sung its song. The hills in the gathering shadows 
seemed to rise higher and come nearer. He wanted 
his answer. The touch of her hand was tenderer, 
the light in her eye was deeper, as she said simply, 
“I am not surprised. I expected it.” 

Then they sat long in silence. And she was 
thinking of the time, now a quarter of a century 
ago, when, for Caryl’s sake, she so nearly crossed 


Her Widening Influence 


175 


over. “Is this that largest joy?” she thought. The 
full moon peeped over the eastern hill, and sent its 
beams through the maples to the porch where they 
sat. After a while he lifted his eyes to hers again. 

“What is it, Caryl? I see you have not told 
me all.” 

“No, not all.” Then he waited, not knowing 
how to tell her. “I do not want to go alone. There 
is one I am sure would like to go with me, if I 
would ask her.” 

“Yes,” said his mother; but this time her answer 
had not the ring that he liked. 

“You do not approve,” he said at length. 

Still no answer, except for the pain in her eyes. 

“Mother,” said he, suddenly sitting erect, “how 
can I give her up? I can not bear to think of life 
without her.” 

His mother stooped and kissed him. 

“Let us walk,” she said. 

So, arm in arm, up and down the drive, they 
went. A light wind stirred the leaves to sighing. 

“O mother,” said he, “what a lament the trees 
are making to-night! They seem like those seek- 
ing the lost, and unable to be quiet from longing.” 

A hush, and then the wind would rise and call 
again, as if it must be heard. It was as though the 
heart of the trees beat in sympathy with his heart. 
Through the wavering leaves the moon lighted his 
face. 


176 


Her Realm 


“Caryl,” said his mother, “it is not that I object 
to Irene.” 

“I know,” said he, “that you are thinking of her 
high social position. But with her refined and 
beautiful mother and the others of her family of 
such noble character, and she herself an angel” — 
and his voice was full of yearning — “it could hardly 
be that she would ever weary of the life that I 
would lead her.” 

“No, it is not probable,” said Mrs. Livingstone ; 
“but it is possible that she might find the way too 
severe. She has never known what it is to have a 
wish ungranted. But Caryl, you are a man. I must 
not oppose you. I simply express my fear. Cer- 
tainly you could not find a truer or more beautiful 
woman than Irene.” 

“Then, mother, if I may, I will bring her up to 
Maple Grove to-morrow. She is visiting an aunt 
in the village, and will not return to the city until 
next week.” 

The following day as fair a guest was enter- 
tained at dinner as ever graced the table at Maple 
Grove. If it had not been for Caryl, Lilian would 
have appropriated Irene. He tried to be generous, 
however, and left her with his mother and sister 
till the middle of the afternoon. And it must be 
confessed that Mrs. Livingstone’s doubts vanished, 
and she was won over to Caryl’s belief that in one 
so pure and lovely there could scarcely lurk the 




HAND IN HAND, LIKE CHILDREN AFTER FLOWERS 


Her Widening Influence 


177 


poison of worldly ambition. Lilian and their guest 
were swinging in the hammock. Caryl entered the 
parlor to his mother. 

'‘May I make a request ?” said he. “Would you 
mind if I should take her to your altar in the woods ?” 
And the color rose in his face. 

“No, no,” was the reply, “take her there if you 
like.” 

Then he walked out across the drive to the 
hammock. 

“May I claim Irene a while ?” he said to Lilian. 

“Certainly. I did not mean to be selfish.” 

They made a picture as they stood by the pas- 
ture-gate, waving adieu. His blue eyes and abun- 
dance of light hair were in contrast with her dark 
hair and eyes. She was dressed in white, with a 
ribbon of delicate pink at her throat and waist, and 
could not have been more bewitchingly attired. Up 
the green slope they went hand in hand, like chil- 
dren after flowers. He swung a basket on his arm, 
for he knew where the ferns grew. Under the trees 
in the old orchard they passed, and then through 
another gate into the grove. Here they paused, 
as nearly every one does, to look out between the 
trees along the valley to the village. The foliage 
on all the hills was rich and full. The tender green 
of the late grainfields and the darker hue of the 
meadows were soft and beautiful in the afternoon 
light. Soon they struck the path leading into the 
12 


178 


Her Realm 


denser woods, and followed it arm in arm, now, 
toward the stone altar. Various fern-clusters lifted 
their fronds between the roots of trees. Now and 
then a belated Jack-in-the-pulpit stood by the way. 
Over their heads the squirrels chattered and the 
birds chirped. The basket hung empty on Caryl’s 
arm. The slanting sunbeams fell through the trees. 
But all the music and poetry of nature were vain, 
just then, for Caryl and Irene. He had intended to 
wait till they reached the altar. But by the time 
they stood before it, he had put the question, and 
received the answer. Two smooth stones were 
found side by side. Here they sat down. Then they 
heard the birds and squirrels, and saw the sunlight. 

Afterward they walked farther into the woods 
to a gurgling brook flowing down a ravine, and, 
sitting upon a bowlder, listened to the falling water. 

“Let us shut our eyes,” said Caryl, “and hear 
what the brook says.” And the ripple, ripple, rip- 
ple over the stones set flowing the tenderest 
thoughts. They were thoughts of childhood and 
forest flowers, thoughts of mature manhood and 
womanhood and plighted love, and of future years 
of joy and growth. They sat a while listening and 
talking and watching the dancing leaves of the maples 
and beeches over their heads. Then they strolled 
up and down the steep sides of the gorge, filling 
their basket with ferns. Presently they came to a 
gate at the western edge of the woods. Leaning 


Her Widening Influence 


179 


upon this with their faces toward the sun, they 
watched the king of day plunge gloriously into the 
horizon. Irene still had her eyes intently fixed upon 
the celestial splendor, when Caryl turned toward 
her. He thought she belonged beyond the sunset, 
so transformed by its glory did she seem. 

“O Irene,” said he, drawing her nearer, “it is 
cruel to take you away from this beautiful land. 
You love it so. But I feel I must go, and I can not 
go without you.” 

“It would be more cruel not to take me,” said 
she, with such a radiant smile as satisfied his heart. 

Then they walked through the gate toward the 
glow in the west, up through the meadows and out 
upon the highway above the limit of Maple Grove 
farm. It was the distant view they wanted. Then 
facing about, they began their long and slow de- 
scent toward the valley. The eastern hills, veiled in 
blue mist, rose tier on tier. By the time they 
reached the orchard-gate to cross the pasture 
toward the house, the moon was climbing over those 
maples and filling the lawn with thick shadows. 
Supper was spread for them in the dining-room, 
as they were too late for the family meal. And 
their feast was bread and milk, with strawberries 
and cream. 

Afterward the front porch seemed to have been 
purposely left for them. And there they sat and 
talked and talked of all they hoped to do to help 


180 


Her Realm 


make this world better. The wavering moonbeams 
crept down through the leaves. Again the night- 
birds twittered, and the meadow brook sung its 
evening song. These two, in all this, saw and 
heard naught but love. They had been sitting a while 
in silence, their hearts too full for words, when 
they saw Mrs. Livingstone coming up the drive' 
from a visit to a sick neighbor 

“Mother,” called Caryl, “please come this way.” 

Then they made a place for her between them 
on the rustic seat, and told her their story. In her 
beautiful smile and loving eyes, they read her ap- 
proval. 

“May God bless you, my children, and may he 
spare us to one another and to those less favored 
till our work is done!” 

Then she kissed them and went in to sit with Mr. 
Livingstone. He was waiting for her as in the days 
gone by, standing in the doorway, looking out upon 
the moonlit meadow. Folding his arms about her, 
and looking yearningly into her eyes, he said: 

“Lucretia, darling, God is good. You came so 
near going for Caryl’s sake, but you are here to 
bless him and Irene in their new love and noble 
purpose.” 

And the night-wind through the trees blew soft 
and low. 


CHAPTER XV 


ACCORDING TO THE SOWING 

Since that evening at Maple Grove a year has 
passed. From the seclusion and quiet simplicity of 
a country home the scene changes to the gayety 
and sumptuous brightness of a city residence on 
a wedding-night. Guests are assembled in large 
numbers; for Caryl Livingstone and Irene Gregory 
have a host of friends; and all of them give one 
verdict: “If ever unions are made in heaven, this 
one was.” They feel that his life will be one of 
large usefulness, and that, in all the range of their 
acquaintance, none can be found better fitted than 
she to help him attain his high ideals. In the pres- 
ence of this appreciative and cultured company, 
Caryl and Irene “pledged their faith either to other.” 
Many and hearty were the congratulations and the 
wishes for success and long life. Yet not all were 
able to understand his choice of working in the 
slums of Chicago — a service which had no promise 
of honor, no suggestion of comfort or congenial as- 
sociation. Horace Thornton remarked to his 
181 


182 


Her Realm 


mother : “If I could n’t find anything better than 
that, I ’d quit 1” But it most certainly would af- 
ford opportunity such as these two people sought. 
Gladly would they give of their own culture and 
refinement to make the light shine into desolate 
homes. Great consolation, during the succeeding 
months, found its way, at their hands, into lonely 
hearts. Friendships were formed that not many 
of earth would prize. But they were such as few 
vicissitudes of fortune could break. For they had 
their foundation at the bottom of the social ladder, 
and did not depend on class distinction. But be- 
cause of Caryl and Irene, children smiled, women 
prayed, and men forgot to curse and drink. It was 
a time long to be remembered in that district of 
the great metropolis. Afterward, when it was only 
a memory, people saw in their dreams two messen- 
gers of light, sometimes together, sometimes apart; 
and they were going up and down those wretched 
streets, entering abodes of poverty and sin, watch- 
ing over sick children, administering medicine and 
consolation to dying mothers, kneeling beside 
drunken fathers, carrying out the dead, and doing 
countless unknown and unthought-of deeds in the 
name of the Christ. What a marvelous hold on 
hearts they had gained during that brief period! 

It is again June, and excessively hot in the 
crowded part of the city. A year has passed since 
their happy marriage, and twice that time since the 


According to the Sowing 183 

night at Maple Grove, when they talked of love, 
with the moonlight struggling through the maple 
branches. Now, far away to the west, they sat 
very near together in two cozy rooms they called 
home. They were reviewing other days. For the 
time they forgot the noise and confusion of the 
street, and the moonbeams slanting between the 
tall buildings, and again were side by side swinging 
in the hammock under the trees. It was cool there ; 
for the breeze blew up the valley, and set the leaves 
to softest music. It was quiet there. Save for the 
low song of the meadow brook, the stirring in the 
trees, the chirping of the crickets, and the distant 
croaking of the frogs, or the lowing of the kine upon 
the hillside, not a sound broke the stillness. Love 
was there, and always had been. No brawling, 
fighting, drinking, or cursing! Rest was there. 
One could retire at night and be lulled to sleep by 
the song of evening. And there was no thought of 
being called out from slumber by drunken carousals. 
There was so much room there, and would be such 
hospitable welcome. It was a picture to dwell upon, 
and one toward which they often turned from the 
toil and weariness of their present situation. For 
to them the world revolved around Maple Grove. 
So easily they might have left all and gone thither. 
They would only have to speak the word. But 
would they go back? Not they. Something drew 
them more strongly than the breath of the forest 


184 


Her Realm 


and the murmuring of brooklets; for in that noi- 
some district souls were being wrecked, and the 
cry of the lost had in it power to hold them. 

So the letters sent back to Maple Grove had 
naught of repining in them, but expressions of grat- 
itude for the unbounded privilege of planting flow- 
ers in people’s lives. His mother would sit by the 
window and read these letters. And those who 
have done a work like hers can guess her thoughts. 
It is certain that she did not reproach herself for a 
lack of exhaustive knowledge of the early poets, or 
inability to discuss with authority modern fiction. 
In these respects she was inferior to some others 
of her day. But in her heart there was sublime 
repose in the thought that back there, at the cross- 
ing of the ways, she “was not disobedient unto the 
heavenly vision.” She had put her work in where 
it told. Now she rejoiced. Sometimes she would 
say to Mr. Livingstone that, if nothing more had 
come of her efforts than that one year in Chicago, 
she ought to be thankful. Then, when she thought 
of her other children, every one of them doing active 
service to right human wrongs, and Caryl himself 
soon to represent them in a more distant and des- 
titute land, and of the probable years ahead of them 
before their work would be done, her heart was 
full. Although she had been obliged to let all of 
them go beyond her care, and most of them miles 


According to the Sowing 


185 


away from their childhood home, she was coming 
to feel a larger joy than ever she had known before. 

Yet she realized than many women, who had 
tried as faithfully as she, had not met with the same 
outward success. In spite of heroic and seemingly 
wise devotion, mothers and fathers had mourned 
unworthy sons and daughters. Some women, too, 
had entered an unequal conflict with incompetent 
or dissipated husbands. So, in her mind, there 
was naught of self-complacency, only humble grat- 
itude. 

She was past threescore years now. Personally 
she had not filled a very large place. Yet, if she 
had foreseen the results forty years before, she could 
not have chosen better. In her children she was 
many times multiplied, and was felt for good in 
unheard of places. Although, as has been indicated 
before, her early years were so circumscribed in 
activity as to occasion lament among those who rec- 
ognized her capacity, there came a time when peo- 
ple who had criticised were silent with wonder. 
Neighbors and friends, who, during all those years, 
had apparently taken little notice, except occasion- 
ally to censure, began to see what this woman had 
been doing. The one who had once opposed a col- 
lege training for farmed children remarked, with 
some astonishment : “Look at that large family, and 
not a black sheep among them !” 


186 


Her Realm 


“Do you wonder, with such a mother ?” was the 
comment of his friend. 

“No, and yet it does not always come out this 
way.” 

“But it would oftener, if all mothers were as 
faithful as Mrs. Livingstone has been.” 

“No doubt about that,” said the first speaker; 
“and I think some of us have been better fathers 
and mothers from seeing her earnestness. And 
there was much other work that she could have done 
so well.” 

“That only emphasizes the importance of the 
work she did do.” 

Some thought it of sufficient interest to seek 
an explanation. And Mrs. Livingstone was re- 
quested one afternoon to speak to the club women 
of the village, and tell them how she had managed so 
successfully in training her boys. The results were 
in marked contrast with those of some other moth- 
ers. She complied with the request, though she had 
not much to say. She had lived her triumph better 
than she could tell it. 

One dreary March day, near noon, a sleigh, car- 
rying a woman clothed in sealskin and wrapped in 
robes, stopped at the stile. Mrs. Thornton was ad- 
mitted to the cheery sitting-room and seated by 
the fire. For some reason, at that time unaccount- 
able to her, she had passed another fearful night of 
restless tossing and troubled dreams. Some grim 


According to the Sowing 187 

specter seemed haunting her through all the long 
hours. Consequently she sought Mrs. Livingstone. 
She was gray and wrinkled and bent, old before her 
time. The women who, twenty-five years ago, used 
to peep from within their humble homes upon Mrs. 
Thornton behind her handsome blacks, and wish 
themselves in her circumstances, would not take 
the trouble this bleak day to rise from their warm 
fires, for they did not care in the least to exchange 
places with her. Since last we looked in upon her 
elegant but wretched home, the shadow over it has 
grown blacker. Though she seldom makes an 
effort to get out from under this cloud, occasionally, 
when it is unusually dense, she drives out to Maple 
Grove, to sit in the cheer of Mrs. Livingstone's 
home and meditate. The subject of her thoughts 
at such times would not be difficult to imagine. 

During Margaret’s life, Mrs. Thornton’s anx- 
iety led her to a partial disregard of Horace’s 
career. And, in the days of deepest mourning and 
of pilgrimages to the grave, she had given Horace 
even less thought than before. When, at length, 
she came to know that she had not buried all of her 
sorrow, she awoke to a great living death that hence- 
forth, for a time, was to cause her exquisite tor- 
ture. The uncomfortable suggestions of that night 
of suspense, with her daughter away in the city, 
and Horace and his hilarious companions in the 
smoking-room up-stairs, were but a forecast of in- 


188 


Her Realm 


describable sights and sounds through dreary years. 
Mr. Thornton’s habitual absorption in his profes- 
sion prevented his taking any heroic measures 
toward reformation. If, however, both had been dis- 
posed at that time to give thought to the needs of 
their son, how hopeless would be the task ! During 
those days when he used to stand at the gate and 
long for his mother’s companionship, he could have 
been guided. But at that time she had far-reaching 
plans for self-culture, and was preparing for a career 
of large usefulness. She had lofty ideals of woman’s 
capacity for social and intellectual attainment, and 
bent all her energies to that ambition. 

Sitting there in Mrs. Livingstone’s home, and 
looking back upon the bright days of her own early 
life, she saw what a seemingly large place she then 
held. And looking upon all the years that had fol- 
lowed until the present, she saw how, in proving 
false to the most sacred trust committed to her, she 
had filled a continually diminishing place, until now 
she was accounted of very little importance. On the 
other hand, Mrs. Livingstone, beginning in so small 
a way, but being heroically true to her trust, had 
filled a continually enlarging place, and was now 
honored for the greatness of her work. To Mrs. 
Thornton the contrast was distressing. And the 
howling of the March wind about the house only 
added to her torment. 

Previous to that first anxious night after Mar- 


According to the Sowing 


189 


garet left, her mother would not admit any alarm on 
account of the brewery in the village. Sometimes 
she had recalled Mrs. Livingstone’s frightful illu- 
sion of lost men and women. But she put it away 
with the persistency of those who obstinately refuse 
to acknowledge approaching calamity. She might 
easily have understood that her boy was in danger, 
but she would not listen. She had not time to hear. 
Now, from necessity, she was taking time to con- 
sider, not what threatened her son, but what was 
already ruining him*. An extravagant method, in- 
deed! For in saving a little time at first, she had, 
later, lost years of large opportunity. But that ter- 
rible night she had begun to realize that Mrs. Liv- 
ingstone’s vision was more than a fancy. The 
sounds of breaking glass and of coarse laughter were 
sufficient proof. The yawning throat of the brewery 
was a horrible fact from which she could not get 
away, and she saw that its presence in the beauti- 
ful village meant something awful for her. In her 
distraction over Margaret she could only sit and 
await results in the case of Horace. 

The developments were startling. From the bil- 
liard-table and a game of cards with a few con- 
vivial friends in his own home, to the gambling hall 
and gilded bar-room with their alluring associates, 
and, finally, to protracted and mysterious escapades 
in neighboring cities, were easy steps. At first, Mr. 
Thornton thought little of it. 


190 


Her Realm 


“Most young men are wild,” he once observed 
to his wife. “We can hardly expect our son to do 
so much better than others.” 

“But he has been wild long enough, James.” 

“Do not be anxious,” said he. “Time will change 
him.” 

And it did; but not in the way his father an- 
ticipated. When at length this man awoke to his 
mistake, he was inconsolable. In a remarkable way 
he had managed, apparently, to shake off responsi- 
bility for Margaret’s wrong-doing. But when his 
only son, the one who was to bear the family name 
and bring honor to it, brought only ignominious 
shame, he came to share his wife’s burden. 

In early manhood he had built much upon the 
distinction to which, as a lawyer, he himself should 
rise, and the higher triumph that should come to 
his son. When he saw his hopes fall in ruin, he 
lost interest in his own profession, and let go much 
that he had already attained. To add to the dismal 
situation, during the first years of Horace’s wander- 
ings, frequent demands were made upon the fa- 
ther’s bank account to get the son out of trouble 
and save the family reputation. 

But Horace was shrewd. Though a frequenter 
of the bar-room, he was there to practice his cun- 
ning upon others, rather than to be duped himself. 
He occasionally took his wine, but he prided him- 


According to the Sowing 


191 


self on knowing when to stop. So that he became 
a terror to some of the homes of the village, for the 
ruin he wrought upon unsuspecting victims. He 
was a sleek, smooth-tongued, suave-mannered young 
man, with black eyes that were not easy to under- 
stand. The unwary admired him for his fine fea- 
tures and elegant dress, and felt honored by ac- 
quaintance with Lawyer Thornton’s son. By his 
cunning it was not long before he had all the money 
he needed, without calling upon his father. But 
woe to his method of obtaining it! His long ab- 
sences from home occasioned some comment. Peo- 
ple were led to believe, however, that the interests 
of his business took him away; though they never 
felt free to inquire too closely into its details. A 
few strongly suspected irregularity. This much 
they knew, that the presence of a large concourse 
in any great city called Horace Thornton thither. 
So that he went to New Orleans, St. Louis, Den- 
ver, San Francisco, Chicago, or New York, as con- 
ditions favored. And it was pretty certain that his 
return each time added considerably to his revenue. 
How many young men were entrapped by his wiles 
upon these various occasions, one may only conjec- 
ture. When Mrs. Thornton came to realize what 
her son was doing, how his commanding but 
wrongly-directed capacities were many times coun- 
teracting the little good she had tried to do, she 


192 


Her Realm 


could have cursed the day of his birth. Rather 
should she have cursed the day she spurned the 
scepter of motherhood, thinking to wield one of 
mightier power. Mrs. Thornton saw it now. And 
she wondered the more at the wisdom that had led 
Mrs. Livingstone to her surpassing triumph. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE STING OF THE ADDER 

That March day, as on previous occasions, Mrs. 
Thornton sat in her friend’s home, saying little and 
thinking much. 

“Margaret is dead,” she said at length, rousing 
herself. “Horace is worse than dead. He left for 
Chicago night before last. God only knows how 
many mothers’ sons will go astray in consequence.” 
And she looked wearily toward the fire. 

“Once,” she continued, more to herself than to 
any one else, “I was able to call him home, or take 
him by the hand and lead him back. Now all my 
entreaties do not bring him to me. Once I had 
him, and probably could have held him ; but I failed 
to see my opportunity. What is before me, no one 
knows. It certainly can not be much harder than 
it has been, though I have a strange and fearful 
dread that his worst is yet to come.” 

And the leaden sky without and the increasing 
sullenness of the wind seemed to emphasize her 
foreboding. Even Mrs. Livingstone shared the 
feeling of impending disaster. But she prayed in 
13 193 


194 


Her Realm 


silence, “If it be possible, let further sorrow be 
stayed/’ 

It was past the middle of the afternoon. By 
this time the wind had risen to a gale. The bare 
branches of the trees were rattling noisily against 
the house. Darkness was settling everywhere. A 
certain weird and ominous something seemed to fill 
all space. Mrs. Thornton was urged to stay till 
the storm was over, but just at its height she felt 
impelled to go, and ordered her carriage. The war 
of the elements was nothing. A far more terrific 
battle was raging in her heart. She did not un- 
derstand the reason for such unusual distress. But 
so it was, and she must go. Passing through the 
door, she turned upon Mrs. Livingstone a face so 
pitifully pinched and drawn, so suggestive of ap- 
proaching calamity, as to come into that good wo- 
man’s dreams at night. In consequence, Mrs. Liv- 
ingstone was not altogether unprepared early the 
next morning to see Mrs. Thornton’s coachman 
again at the door with an urgent request that, if 
possible, she return with him at once to the village 
No questions were asked, and nothing was said in 
explanation of this unusual message. But the ride 
was quickly over, leaving Mrs. Livingstone in the 
presence of her distracted friend. A glance at Mrs. 
Thornton assured her of the worst. Scarcely a syl- 
lable passed between them. Vocal expression 
seemed mockery. Feeling was too deep, pain too 


The Sting of the Adder 


195 


intense for words. Silent sympathy was all she 
could give. A telegram from Caryl placed in Mrs. 
Livingstone’s hand explained the situation. It had 
been received by Mr. Thornton the day before from 
Chicago, and read as follows: 

“Horace injured last night. Come at once. 

“Caryl Livingstone.” 

Mr. Thornton left on the evening train. Now 
she must await word from him before she could 
know the full import of that startling message. Al- 
though neighbors and friends called to comfort her, 
she felt that she must have the sustaining influence 
of Mrs. Livingstone. 

Later in the day, upon receipt of the fatal in- 
telligence, Mrs. Thornton accepted it as one be- 
numbed beyond feeling by continually-increasing 
disappointment and sorrow. Had this storm beat 
over her with even greater fury, it scarcely could 
have produced deeper anguish. She could only 
bow beneath the blast. 

Two days before, at three in the afternoon, the 
keen-eyed, handsome Horace Thornton had stepped 
briskly from the palace-car of a through train in 
Chicago, and, ordering a carriage, had ridden hur- 
riedly to his hotel. The hours before dinner were 
spent in business conferences with several associ- 
ates. Later in the evening he was at liberty to stroll 
into the street and seek amusement according to his 


196 


Her Realm 


inclination. All he sought that night was compan- 
ionship with congenial fellows. At the races next 
day he would practice his usual schemes. It was 
now ten o’clock. Walking past the electric lights 
in the softly-falling snow, Horace Thornton was an 
attractive figure. He was faultlessly dressed, and 
carried himself like a conqueror. Presently he 
stopped on a corner, within the brightness pouring 
from a gilded saloon. It was a popular resort, and 
many young men of aristocratic families were go- 
ing in and out. He had often been there before, 
and now he frequently nodded in recognition of 
familiar faces. Still he did not enter. He seemed 
awaiting the arrival of some one. At length, 
aroused by a well-known whistle, he turned and 
grasped the hand of a friend. 

“Hello, Jerold! So you ’re here at last ? Let’s 
go in and have a game.” 

The doors opened to admit them, and shut again. 
And the world outside was streaming up and down 
the broad street, all unconscious of the progress of 
events within. The hour grew late. Conviviality 
ran high. Horace Thornton, leaning over a table, 
glass in hand, was disputing with Jerold the out- 
come of a game of cards. Others became inter- 
ested, even taking sides. None of them dreamed 
of the awful result toward which the altercation 
over the wineglasses was tending. From the sounds 
of merriment within, passers-by might have sup- 


The Sting of the Adder 


197 


posed that the utmost jollity prevailed. But words 
were becoming hotter. Faces turned red with an- 
ger. Suddenly, “bang!” a shot was fired! Then 
a shriek, a heavy fall, and Horace Thornton lay 
moaning upon the floor. The wildest consterna- 
tion prevailed. No one knew what to do. Out- 
siders, hearing the report, rushed in, others fol- 
lowing. 

“Stand back, men! stand back!” shouted a tall 
young man, entering the door, and pushing his way 
through the crowd. And Caryl Livingstone bent 
over the unfortunate victim. Earlier in the even- 
ing he had been summoned to the bedside of a mis- 
sion-worker in the neighborhood, and, passing this 
resort, had seen Horace and his companion enter. 
But his errand was urgent, and he hurried on. Re- 
turning two hours later by the same street, he was 
startled by a revolver shot. He thought instantly 
of Horace, and ran the length of the block, to find 
others equally alarmed, pouring into the saloon. 
Forgetting his own risk, and joining the crowd, he 
realized his fears in the prostrate form of his early 
acquaintance. 

“Bring some water, quick !” said he, meanwhile 
supporting the young man’s head, and holding a 
handkerchief against the wound. 

The remorseful murderer made no effort to es- 
cape, but willingly surrendered to the police, whose 
presence helped to restore order. 


198 


Her Realm 


“Some one call the ambulance !” said Caryl. 

It quickly arrived, to bear Horace to the hospital. 

“How is he?” anxiously inquired Caryl of the 
surgeon a few minutes later. The doctor shook 
his head. 

“If this had occurred in Halstead Street,” said 
he, “nobody would have thought or cared much. 
But it ’s a terrible affair. That Jerold Freeman is 
one of Chicago’s society men.” 

“Yes, and poor Horace!” said Caryl, bending 
tenderly over the white face. “This will be a dread- 
ful blow to his parents.” 

He had already sent the message to Mr. Thorn- 
ton, and a note of explanation to Irene ; for he had 
determined to stay by till the end. 

Time dragged heavily until Mr. Thornton ar- 
rived. The doctors, though hopeless, did their ut- 
most to prolong Horace’s life for the sake of his 
father, who, after a sleepless journey, reached the 
hospital the next da>. He was barely in time to 
look into his son’s dying eyes, and read in them, as 
he thought, bitter reproach. Power of speech was 
gone, and the end was near. Though the father 
pleaded piteously for one parting word — a last mes- 
sage — for the suffering mother, he awakened no 
response. But he stood looking regretfully upon 
the face before him, long after it was cold in death. 

One need not dwell upon the dismal return home, 
and the unspeakably sad funeral rites. But an- 


The Sting of the Adder 


199 


other grave was made in the family plot, at the 
farther side of the cemetery. And another form 
awaited the resurrection. The snow was on all the 
hills along the Tioughnioga that day, when the body 
of Horace Thornton was lowered to its resting- 
place. And near by, underneath the white mantle, 
were hidden the flowers that would bloom in the 
spring, filling the woods with fragrance and beauty. 
Underneath adjacent mounds lay buried the hopes 
of early years. Never again should they rise to 
bloom in beauty. What ought some day to unfold 
in celestial loveliness was blighted beyond the power 
of future growth. Above these two graves Mr. and 
Mrs. Thornton erected monuments worthy of their 
social position. They planted flowers and shed bit- 
ter tears. Yet these could not atone for the terrible 
result to which their neglect had contributed. 


CHAPTER XVII 


HOME-COMING 

It is near the last of June. Daisies whiten the 
meadows. Rains have laid the dust, and left the 
trees and fields glittering in the sunlight. Some- 
thing unusual is on hand at Maple Grove. There 
is a yearning in mother’s face waiting to be satis- 
fied, and a light in father’s eyes, eager and expect- 
ant. For days they have had one sole topic of con- 
versation; and they have moved about the house 
with the vigor of other years. Great preparations 
have been in progress. The whole place has taken 
on new life. Windows have been opened to the 
sun. Additional beds have been put up in the attic 
and store-room. The culinary department has sud- 
denly become abnormally active. Cookies, dough- 
nuts, and pies, pressed meats, baked beans, scal- 
loped potatoes, and Boston brown bread, are a part 
of the tempting array upon the pantry shelves. 
Tables, drawn out to their farthest length, fill the 
dining-room. 

The day is at hand. Everything is ready. Mr. 
Livingstone with the family carriage, and Norman 
with the platform wagon, have gone to meet the 
200 


Home-Coming 


201 


morning train. Such precious freight as it was car- 
rying that day! How much its coming meant to 
the scattered members of the Livingstone family! 
There had been a certain joy in going out to try 
new conditions. There had been exhilaration in the 
thought of measuring powers with other people. 
It had been a means of growth and strength to 
shoulder arms in the world’s battles. But now, hav- 
ing done this, to be able again to face homeward was 
compensation for years of toil. With light hearts 
and bounding footsteps, they turned for the time, 
from business and household cares, back to the 
scenes of their free and happy childhood. Lawrence, 
with his wife and children, came all the way from 
North Dakota; Charlotte, with her family, from 
Iowa ; Leroy, with his, from Kansas ; and Caryl and 
Irene from Chicago. They meet at the western 
gateway of their native commonwealth, and board 
the Empire State Express. But so eager are they 
that even the telegraph-poles appear unusually far 
apart. “A mile a minute” seems too slow a rate. 
Upon reaching the city, Constance from New York, 
with her husband and children, and Mary from 
teaching in Albany, joined them. And all “catch 
the homebound train” for the village. From pre- 
vious experience, they know how to select seats, and 
are ranged along the left of the car, in order to view 
the deep valley, with its winding, silvery stream 
and the opposite hills. 


202 


Her Realm 


When several miles out from the city, Charlotte’s 
little Leroy looked up into his mother’s face with 
such a satisfied air. 

“I just love this train !” said he. “Do you want 
to know why ?” 

“Yes,” said she. 

“Because it is taking us to grandpa’s.” 

Once, some time before this, a teacher had gone 
out from the village to visit relatives in Kansas. 
After a year she returned to her native town. Tak- 
ing this last ride between the hills down into the 
Tioughnioga valley, she had a sensation of smoth- 
ering. In contrast with the freedom of the plains, 
she felt oppressed by the heights about her. Not so 
these travelers. The sight of the hills made them 
breathe more easily. They were children coming 
home. Restraint was left back there on the prairies. 
They were free once more. Others in the car must 
have observed this fact, and possibly wondered a 
little at their unbounded joy. Some were on the 
way to New York, and some to London. But what 
was all the world compared with Maple Grove? 

Mr. Livingstone and Norman were early at the 
station. They stood out on the platform, looking up 
the valley for the first sign of the approaching train. 
They hoped it would not be late. As last they heard 
its whistle. Soon in the edge of the village they saw 
the smoke puffing into the morning air, and then the 


Home-Coming 


203 


engine rolling over the shining rails, across the 
streets, up to the station. Exactly on time ! It stood 
panting on the track as though conscious of having 
brought safely to its destination a priceless load. 

“There ’s grandpa ! There ’s grandpa !” shouted 
a chorus of lusty voices. And a crowd of boys and 
girls rushed pellmell out of the train and fairly be- 
sieged him. When he recovered himself sufficiently 
to speak, he declared that any two of them could 
make more noise than his eight ever did. He never 
saw such jumping- jacks ! But he loved them, in 
spite of their unusual demonstration. Then, his own 
sons and daughters, how glad he was to see them! 
Though he did not say much, his eyes expressed his 
joy. At last they were loaded, and the two teams 
headed for Maple Grove. Such a ride as that was! 
Only one occurrence in any way marred its com- 
pleteness. They passed Mrs. Thornton’s stately old 
residence, and saw her thin, pale face looking out 
through the curtains. She barely nodded, but did 
not return their smiles. 

Objects of interest were on every hand. Nothing 
seemed to escape them. All changes were noted. 
One man had taken away his fence ; another had set 
out an orchard ; while still another had built a barn. 
From their remarks no one would have thought any 
of them a college president, teacher, author, elec- 
trical engineer, preacher, or missionary. All were 


204 


Her Realm 


again farmer boys and girls, talking over the mi- 
nutest affairs of the neighborhood. The outside 
world, with its weighty problems, concerned men 
and women, not children like these. Their jollity 
was contagious. As they continued their ride they 
became conscious of being objects of amusement. 
Often they heard themselves enumerated: “Two, 
four, six, eight, ten,” and up to twenty-four. But 
they only smiled and nodded, leaving these inquisi- 
tive strangers to satisfy their own curiosity. 

They are now within a few minutes of home, 
and must have a family yell with which to 
greet those maples. So they set to work. After 
considerable effort, and a contribution from the 
genius of each, they succeed, to their entire satisfac- 
tion, and are only waiting the opportune moment to 
try their lung power. 

Lilian and her mother, with two aunts and un- 
cles, who had come the day before, were waiting 
expectantly in the sitting-room. Mrs. Livingstone 
had ordered a long white banner, bearing in ever- 
green the word, “Welcome,” so suspended between 
the trees as to be the first object visible to their 
eager eyes, as they should look across the meadow 
from the adjacent slope. They were not due for at 
least half an hour. Everything was very still about 
the old place. Mother was trying to read, hoping 
to pass the time more quickly. Lilian had finished 
playing very softly, in memory of childhood days, 


Home-Coming 


205 


“Love at Home.” She looked up at the clock, say- 
ing to Aunt Martha, “How long before they will 
come, do you think ?” 

Hark ! such an extraordinary jangle of voices 
from the highway ! Probably a load of gay young 
men from the village on their way to the Glen. They 
do not think it worth while to walk to the door, but 
prefer to wait till father and Norman drive in sight. 
Mother takes up her book. Lilian turns again to 
the organ. But, listen! Those boisterous fellows 
are surely coming up the hill. Their shouts are 
just under the maples: 

“Razzle, dazzle, razzle dazzle, 

Razzle, dazzle, dee! 

Livingstone crowd from the 
Wide prairee!” 

“These are our folks,” says mother, with sudden 
surprise. And more out of the body than in, — for 
she had questioned whether they would make the 
early train, — she leads the way to the side porch. 
Here they are, at last, — those whose coming she has 
so long awaited. Father drives up first, and Norman 
next, with vehicles packed full of the dearest fapes. 
They do not wait to reach the stile, but come piling 
out over the wheel, in a grand rush for mother! 
Laughter and tears mingle. 

“I thought I should see men and women,” said 
she, with a radiant smile. “But these are my boys 


206 


Her Realm 


and girls come back again.” Just then* Leroy, drop- 
ping all his acquired dignity, went plunging and 
tumbling over the grass in a manner to set them all 
going in their old-time uproarious way. 

Mother had not intended it, but in the word 
across the maples she stirred up all the “home feel- 
ing” within them, and set them shouting to their 
utmost. They had not meant to be so demonstra- 
tive. But that word, “Welcome” was such a mes- 
sage from mother! They were like victorious sol- 
diers returning from battle, and shouting for their 
queen. And now, before she is aware, she is borne 
triumphantly at the head of a procession into the 
house, and placed in her arm-chair. 

What has come over the place, anyway? Time 
must have turned backward. Surely, mother is 
young again; for the rooms are echoing the sound 
of childish laughter and the patter of little feet. Is 
she dreaming, or is it true that her babies are again 
about her? If so, she must look after the dinner, 
for the children will be hungry. No, no, mother; 
do you not remember? The dinner is already pre- 
pared. And see ! these big boys and girls of yours 
have found their way to the bureau, and have come 
out with gingham aprons. Just give your orders, 
please; they shall be executed with dispatch. Yes, 
yes, of course ; she understands how it is now. She 
certainly is not so old as to have forgotten. But 
such a sudden transformation of what has been so 


Home-Coming 


207 


quiet, into a house full of merriment and song, is 
enough to lead one to fancy a turning back to other 
days. 

After some pretense at work in the kitchen, but 
a great deal more talking, these grown-up children 
come in to announce that dinner is ready. The fact 
is, Lilian had everything prepared before their ar- 
rival. All are hungry, and respond quickly to the in- 
vitation. How the family has increased since father 
and mother used to sit at opposite sides of the table, 
with their little flock about them ! Then they num- 
bered ten. Now they “see the table wider grown.” 
Thirty-one sit down to dine. And their ages range 
all the way from one year to seventy. How glad 
those two dear people are this summer-day to gather 
the loved ones under the home roof ! No one men- 
tions it, but, evidently, they are not as young as they 
once were. Silver hairs have multiplied during the 
last few years. But that was a wonderful dinner. 
They ate and talked till they were satisfied, with no 
thought about the haying, the butter-making, or gar- 
dening. Work was forgotten for the time. The 
meal being over, the dishes were washed and re- 
placed in the cupboard almost before one could tell 
what had happened. 

But now all are wanted on the front lawn; for 
the artist has arrived with his camera, and is ready 
to take their pictures. The old home formed a back- 
ground, the maple leaves a canopy over their heads, 


208 


Her Realm 


and the green grass a carpet beneath their feet. 
Father and mother occupied large chairs in the cen- 
ter, with their children and grandchildren standing 
or sitting around in the form of a pyramid. All of 
them were supposed to smile. But the tender mem- 
ories of other years and the prophecies of the days 
to come shaded some faces. 

After this the company broke up into groups 
about the lawn or in the house, until milking-time. 
Then the older ones were interested in father’s and 
Norman’s choice dairy. The children sped away to 
the pasture, and soon dotted the hillside among the 
daisies. 

The milking is over; and Lilian, just like her, 
brings out the ice-cream and cake. For she has not 
been superseded since her college days, when she 
carried off the palm for culinary excellence. 

An invited guest on this occasion is Lenora 
Thompson, who thinks no one quite equal to Nor- 
man, and expects to live with him, shortly, in the 
house across the meadow. 

Now the evening shadows are fallen upon Maple 
Grove. A program has been prepared after the 
former custom on birthday anniversaries. There 
are brief addresses, solos, and choruses. Whatever 
the theme assigned him, each speaker swings around 
to the subject of “Home,” for he can not help it. 
So intense are their feelings as they stand before 
those two who made possible their happy youth, and 


Home-Coming 


209 


prepared them for useful manhood and womanhood, 
that they can scarcely say what they have in mind. 
They make plain, however, their great gratitude, and 
their determination to do by their own children as 
nearly as possible what was done by them. Most 
of them have been obliged to make their homes in 
cities, where conditions are often less favorable to 
symmetrical development. But they believe that 
home is where the heart is, and that, when father 
and mother are true to their trust, they can counter- 
act, in large measure, unfavorable surroundings. 
The example of their own parents is a constant in- 
spiration. Such were the sentiments they freely ex- 
pressed. 

At length it came mother’s turn to speak. She 
referred to the scene in the grape arbor, and the 
crowning of Queen Dewdrop, years before, and con- 
trasted her quiet life with that of some others, who 
had been privileged to journey over land and sea, 
and to visit noted cities, and behold the pomp of am- 
bassadors and the crowning of kings. Then look- 
ing tenderly into the faces of her noble sons and 
daughters, with their happy families about them, she 
said simply, “But this is coronation enough for 
me. 

Finally, under deep emotion, they close the even- 
ing with their favorite song, 

“ Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 

Be it ever so humble, there ’s no place like home.” 

14 


210 


Her Realm 


On going to rest, a gentle rain, as in their child- 
hood, patters upon the old roof. 

The next morning, with Lilian at the organ, they 
sang: 

“ When all thy mercies, O my God, 

My rising soul surveys, 

Transported with the view, I ’m lost 
In wonder, love and praise.” 

The lesson read was the one hundred and twenty- 
eighth Psalm, portraying the blessings to those who 
fear God. Father’s comprehensive prayer was the 
very one he used to utter, with a few broken words 
of gratitude for “this home gathering.” 

That night the neighbors were invited in. One 
of them said to a friend afterward, “I am glad they 
had so much joy that they let it overflow to us.” 
Another, a hard-working farmer, who seldom spoke 
much, said, “I just can’t get over the good time we 
had with the Livingstones !” 

Without intending it, they occasioned consid- 
erable animated comment the next day when they 
walked down the aisle of the village church, headed 
by Mr. Livingstone. No wonder the pastor 
preached with unusual power. Such an infusion of 
family religion all at once was enough to put new 
spirit within him. After the service, he smilingly 
addressed Mr. Livingstone as “the patriarch,” say- 
ing, “A few such men as you in every community 
would revolutionize the Church !” 


Home-Coming 2 1 1 

The day for good-bye came too soon. All but 
Caryl and Irene must return to their work. There 
was not as much exuberance in the farewell as in the 
greeting. A very different feeling was manifest. 
There was no tumbling over the carriage-wheels to 
see who should be off first, but an orderly and very 
reluctant mounting by the steps, as though feet were 
loath to turn again from this short holiday into life’s 
busy paths. Finally, when all adieus had been said, 
Leroy called out: 

“Wait a minute! Let’s sing, ‘We’ll never say 
good-bye in heaven.’ Ready.” 

“We ’ll” — they began, but could go no farther. 
Then they looked appealingly to Mary. She had 
great self-control. If she would lead, the rest could 
follow. 

“ ‘We ’ll never,’ ” she sang, with unsteady voice, 
then stopped. No one had joined her. Constance’s 
husband was then suggested. Surely he would be 
able. He was not influenced by such tender mem- 
ories. But he could not utter even one sound. It 
was of no use. The song had to be given up. 

“We must go,” said father, taking the whip and 
reins, “or we shall miss the train.” 

And the faithful horses, as though possessed of 
a feeling for the occupants of the carriage, moved 
slowly along the drive, out from beneath the maples, 
down toward the highway, Norman following close 
behind. Mother came out and stood under the trees. 


212 


Her Realm 


There she staid as long as she could see a handker- 
chief waving or a hat lifted in air. They could 
not sing,, but they could act their farewell. They 
saw her smiling with apparent bravery, but no one 
guessed how she felt. In a little they had passed 
beyond the edge of the farm and out of sight. Then 
she walked slowly back to the house. It was very 
quiet, and a little lonely. But Caryl and Irene, 
during the time of their stay, were to fill a large place 
in her affections, and leave with her pictures to dwell 
upon during the months to follow. But that morn- 
ing, after taking her seat in the big arm-chair, she 
said to Lilian, “I am so glad I could see all the chil- 
dren once more.” 

Frequently throughout the day she would arise, 
and, going out under the trees, look wistfully and 
long across the meadow to the hill over which they 
had ridden away. It was as though her soul were 
hungry for them yet. Or, possibly, she had a mes- 
sage she would have given, but had refrained from 
fear of marring the joy of their home-coming. Just 
before the sun went down, she was out again, but 
this time with her face toward the west. She fixed 
her eyes steadily upon the glory through the grove, 
until she seemed to those looking upon her from the 
family room to have heard a call from beyond the 
sunset. 

‘‘Can that be true?” said Lilian, more to herself 
than to any one else. Caryl brushed the tears from 


Home-Coming 


213 


his own eyes, and went out to his mother. He took 
her tenderly by the hand, and said, “Come.” Then 
they walked together in silence. Her thoughts were 
of those she loved, and were full of calm repose. 
There was only one disquieting suggestion. That 
concerned Mr. Livingstone. She knew it would be 
hard for him. And she doubted if he had the least 
suspicion of what was in her mind. Caryl’s thoughts 
were of his mother. He recalled their walk under 
those same trees three years before. How strong 
she then seemed! He realized that now she was 
changed. 

“Mother,” said he, looking yearningly into her 
face, “mother,” — but he could go no farther. So 
he kissed her, and led her into the house. During 
the evening Caryl looked often from her to his 
father, wondering how that dear man could bear 
it ; for she had been his earthly inspiration. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


TILL HER WORK WAS DONE 

The summer is passed. The haze is on the hills, 
and autumn tints are on the leaves. The mellow 
light of age falls softly upon the waning year. The 
exuberance of spring sowing and the joy 
of summer harvests are gone. The pastures 
and bare cornfields, the apple-laden orchards 
and nut-filled forest trees mark the approach- 
ing end of nature’s annual cycle. It is a day in late 
September. Its solemnity is oppressive. Yet it is 
a day to make glad the heart of childhood ; for chil- 
dren hear not the melancholy chord in time’s au- 
tumnal chant. What to others sounds a minor note, 
to them brings rapturous joy. They catch the echo 
of coming Christmas bells. The frost that browns 
the hillsides and colors the maples deepens childish 
laughter and quickens childish feet. It is just such 
a calm and silent day as needs the merry ring of 
youthful voices to brighten thoughts. But at this 
time no children are in Maple Grove household. 
Nothing now awakens their footsteps. Yet quiet 
peace and contentment abide there. Upon two 
214 


Till Her Work Was Done 


215 


within that home a hallowed light rests, not unlike 
that upon the landscape. Yet who knows but that 
life’s autumn may linger gloriously? A score of 
years may yet be theirs in which to enjoy the re- 
wards of faithful service. Certainly that is what the 
absent loved ones anticipate. They had ridden away 
that summer morning, a few weeks previous, fully 
erpecting to come again, and find still 

“A father’s smile 
And a mother’s face at the door.” 

No other possible outcome was in their thoughts. 
To return and miss the welcome was an experience 
for which they were not prepared. 

Afternoon wanes. The ticking away of the min- 
utes means more than usual to the few dwellers at 
Maple Grove. But little time is left. The last 
words are being said. Mr. Livingstone is undemon- 
strative. Seldom are tears in his eyes; but they are 
there this September day. When, a few years be- 
fore, Lawrence and Leroy left home for the West, he 
did not seem to mind much. But now that his young- 
est son is about to go so far away, it is different. 
He ventures little upon the subject, however, except 
to say that he never expects to see him again in this 
world. But Mrs. Livingstone, with a sublimity of 
courage well-nigh divine, taking Caryl’s hands in 
hers, and looking calmly into his blue eyes, says, 
through her tears; 


216 


Her Realm 


“This is indeed my largest joy.” 

“We will try not to disappoint you, mother.” 
Then he forced himself to say, “When we come back 
we will plan another reunion, and then we will have 
something to tell you.” 

She smiled. He could not. How his career prov- 
identially led to a position of extensive usefulness, is 
another story. 

The next day, on his way to the coast, he wrote 
to his brothers and sisters what might have escaped 
their notice in the joy of their brief visit home. 
These were the words that silenced laughter and 
dimmed their eyes in reading: “Perhaps I should 
not say it, but when I bade good-bye to mother last 
night, I thought I should not see her again.” 

As their vessel was sailing out of New York 
harbor, he and Irene watched the retreating figure 
of “Liberty Enlightening the World.” They saw 
something behind that tall monument. Their own 
beloved land was also receding. But more than 
that was the home of their childhood. As they 
gazed with tear-filled eyes, they seemed to see the 
vanishing outlines of one who had summoned all 
her powers to give them a hearty farewell, and now 
was letting go her hold. They had hoped to find 
her there again. The rest of the children had 
scarcely thought of other possibility; and the sug- 
gestion from Caryl came with great suddenness. 
While still under the tender influence of his words, 


Till Her Work Was Done 


217 


there came a letter which, to their minds, confirmed 
his judgment. It was from mother. She had not 
been well for a week, though she hoped to be better 
soon. But, somehow, her words breathed such lov- 
ing solicitude for her scattered children, and for the 
precious little ones in all their homes, as to seem to 
them, beyond doubt, a parting benediction. Yet the 
regular arrival each week of a letter from her hand 
helped to sustain the hope of her recovery. This 
forced expectation continued until midwinter. Then 
the home letters began to come from Lilian. It was 
evident what that meant. Then the weeks that fol- 
lowed, with no word from mother’s pen! In all 
those homes were packages of her letters. To think 
that she had grown too weary to write any more! 
How quickly would they have gone to her! But 
that would not be wise. Better that the old home 
be quiet. Besides, so recently all of them had been 
there, and to go again at this time might only hasten 
her departure. With the coming of summer she 
might grow strong. 

The days pass. Finally, Constance and Mary, 
being nearer, are summoned. The message which 
calls them is this, from father : “Do not worry, but 
you would better come.” There was hope, and their 
presence might help her. 

It is a quiet midsummer Sabbath. Lawrence and 
Leroy had arrived the night before; Charlotte was 
too ill, and Caryl was beyond the sea. Mr. Living- 


218 


Her Realm 


stone, trying to gather strength for the conflict, is 
strolling through the fields, and, finally, to the 
farther side of the wood to her altar. She has not 
been there of late. But now it is sacred to him 
because of what it has been to her. He kneels be- 
fore it. 

Meanwhile at the house, in that upper room, 
under the maples, she improves an opportunity for 
which she has been waiting. Norman, Lilian, Mary, 
and Constance, with Lawrence and Leroy, are there. 
The utmost repose rests in her face. She can not say 
much. But, between the paroxysms of pain, she 
manages to give her message. 

“Of course, you will deal very tenderly with 
father,” she begins. “I need hardly say that. But 
he will need more than your usual consideration. 
For your sakes and his I would like to stay longer, 
but evidently my work is done. I could scarcely do 
more, even for him. So I will go first. After awhile 
he will come, and we will go to the Father and say, 
‘The children that thou gavest us are all in/ ” Then 
she rested. 

During this pause, Mr. Livingstone entered. A 
glance at her told him the truth. She was rapidly 
failing. That night, against her protest, he refused 
to leave her, but sat holding her hand and looking 
into her face until she “fell asleep.” He recalled 
that night of agony years before, when God had sent 
her back from the shadows. Now it was her time 
to go. Her work was finished. He would not com- 


Till Her Work Was Done 


219 


plain, nor try to keep her from her glorious reward. 
Through Christ she had won an immortal crown. 
To this man, watching in the silent midnight hour 
her passage through the gates, “the land that is very 
far off” seemed to come near. For she had entered 
in to await his coming, and was now beholding the 
“King in his beauty. ,, 

The next day, to an anxious watcher in the Iowa 
home, a messenger boy brought this word : “Mother 
went home last night.” It was expected; yet how 
could Charlotte have heart ever to go back and not 
find her there? She bowed in sorrow. Then re- 
membering the life that had gone, she lifted the 
coverlet from the tiny face beside her, and, for the 
sake of the helpless little boy, and for His sake who 
had given her such a mother, she smiled and took 
courage. 

One day afterward, relatives, friends, and neigh- 
bors, gathering at the homestead, heard the minister 
read that patriarchal utterance, “The Lord gave 
and the Lord hath taken away ; blessed be the name 
of the Lord,” and Paul’s triumphant song of immor- 
tality, “Thanks be to God which giveth us the victory 
through our Lord Jesus Christ.” Then was sung 
the hymn she had liked best : 

“ And I shall see him face to face, 

And tell the story, ‘ Saved by grace.’ ” 

Among those present are Mr. and Mrs. Thorn- 
ton. They learn that day a new lesson of trust that 


220 


Her Realm 


is to brighten a little their brief pathway to the val- 
ley. Even now they seem within its shadow, and 
are grateful for the light vouchsafed them at the last. 

The place of burial had been chosen according 
to father’s wish, on the southern slope of the neigh- 
boring cemetery, overlooking a winding stream, 
where he could see it every time he rode by. Some 
who did not understand had thought that the passing 
of such a woman would be the occasion of uncon- 
trollable grief. They were amazed at the composure 
of Mr. Livingstone and his children. That very 
night, after the milking, he said with his usual calm- 
ness, “Let us have a song.” While Lilian played and 
the others did their best, he sang her favorite hymns 
through without a break. Though always deeply 
sympathetic toward others in sorrow, he bore his 
own with remarkable fortitude. 

At the time of Charlotte’s first return home after 
that, she had kept saying to herself, during her long 
journey, “If I only could find mother there !” When 
the train reached the village station she looked out 
to see father alone in the family carriage, waiting 
for her; and she could scarcely greet him calmly. 
On the way up the valley he drove into the carefully- 
kept cemetery, saying, “I would like to show you 
where we laid her.” She was sorry he proposed it, 
for she could hardly bear more. Yet with him 
there was not a trace of emotion. Stopping before 
the grave, they stepped out upon the gravel drive. 


Till Her Work Was Done 


221 


“I have everything ready/’ said he. “Here is my 
name, with the date of my birth. The children will 
only have to add that of my death. This is her 
mound,” pointng to the one elevation marking the 
plot. “Just beside her is a place for me. The rest 
will be for the children.” 

Then they drove home. Charlotte could not have 
listened longer to such deliberate plans for her 
father’s “narrow house.” 

At the time of mother’s going he said little, but 
felt deeply. Once he remarked that he did not know 
how he ever could have stood it, except for the chil- 
dren. For their sakes he wanted to work a few years 
longer. But after that they noticed a difference in 
him. All his life he had had such a merry ring to 
his laughter. It was subdued of late. Though not 
despondent, but full of hope, he little more than 
smiled. They even fancied that he was constantly 
listening for the sound of a voice. Frequently they 
heard him softly sing: 

“ I know not the hour when my Lord will come 
To take me away to his own dear home!” 

One evening, with a mellow light resting upon 
the valley, he sat by the window watching the length- 
ening shadows over the landscape. 

“Well,” said he, “I don’t know but I shall be 
glad when I get through — my work all done.” 

Often after that he expressed the same thought. 


222 


Her Realm 


Those who heard him say it, would force back the 
tears, and wonder if he saw the chariot coming. 
They used to say of him in those days, “Father is 
perfect,” though such a thought never occurred to 
him. 

With reference to her who had gone, compensa- 
tions were not wanting. She had left this message 
with the neighbors: “Tell them I shall be looking 
for them.” 

Different people had expressed themselves thus : 
“I count my turning to a better life from Aunt Lu- 
cretia’s death.” And, standing before her picture, 
those left in the homestead would say, “She staid 
till her work was done.” Yet, when the months and 
the years went by, Lilian would sometimes say, “It 
seems as though I must see her.” 

They did not know it at the time; but riding 
away that morning after the last reunion, when they 
saw their mother under the maples, they were look- 
ing upon a picture that was to linger long and hang 
bright upon memory’s wall — a picture with a back- 
ground of green pastures, abundant forests and yel- 
low grainfields ; but in the foreground a woman 
whose love never failed, whose patience never 
wearied, and whose faith and hope never died. Long 
after that woman had gone beyond the sunset she 
seemed still to linger, giving noble incentive to 
worthy sons and daughters. 

And that other face grew brighter with the years 


Till Her Work Was Done 


223 


— the face of him who had walked beside her with 
never-faltering fidelity and tender loyalty. She had 
been able to reign in her kingdom, because he had 
kept that which was committed to him ; and for what 
he had been to her and to them, they loved their 
father with increasing devotion. It was beautiful 
to see with what tender regard Lilian cared for him, 
and with what appreciation and pride he would pre- 
sent her to any stranger who happened to call : “This 
is my daughter Lilian.” 

In his young manhood and early married life, he 
had played much upon a violin, which had been given 
him by his mother on condition that it should never 
be used to lead the dance. Often neighbors would 
sit in their doorways at nightfall and listen to the 
strains of some quaint air, sounding through the 
valley under his deft touch. After Mrs. Livingstone 
passed away, however, for several years, the violin- 
box was securely shut. But when the time drew 
near for him to go to her, he took out his instru- 
ment once more, and, day after day, his eyes being 
dim, his ears dull of hearing, and his voice no longer 
able to repeat the familiar melodies, he would play 
the old songs, and sometimes Lilian would sing. 
To her his playing seemed to wake the echoes of 
other days. She would see herself a little girl again, 
sitting with the others at her father’s feet ; and, best 
of all, the eyes of her mother beaming kindly on all 
of them. So these two, the father, whose work was 


224 


Her Realm 


almost done, and the daughter, who was giving her 
life in self-forgetful service, comforted each other. 
It was a benediction to see them. 

The altar still stands in the forest, though some 
of its stones are out of place, since she used to kneel 
there. The wavering leaves of the maples still cast 
their shadows about the old home. It is still true that 

“ The grass in the orchard is much more green 
Than most of the grass you see.” 

But more enduring than verdant fields or towering 
trees and builded stone is the character in her chil- 
dren. So, while the ever-constant landscape may 
breathe a note of sadness to those who, listening, 
hear not her voice, yet faith, hope, and love rise tri- 
umphant, knowing that, beside the River of Life and 
underneath the tree whose leaves are “for the heal- 
ing of nations,” she has her crown, and awaits the 
coming of those whose footsteps follow hers. 





















NOV 16 1903 






















